Getting to Know You
by GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: In the first months of the operation, as he was still getting to know his team, Colonel Hogan sometimes underestimated his men. By showing a little faith in all of them, he helped them trust one another and form an exceptional unit. Newkirk's stutter started as an obstacle, but in time he showed Hogan-and himself-that it didn't have to be. UPDATED with Ch 20. Four more to go!
1. Please Listen

"Who's next?" Colonel Hogan asked his second-in-command, Sergeant James Kinchloe. It was his fourth day in Luftstalag 13 and he was systematically meeting each of the talented men he hoped might have a place on his team.

"Let's see. That was Murphy, Nash, Nealon, Neumann." He consulted his clipboard. "Oh. Next up is Corporal Newkirk, Sir."

Hogan heard the tone in Kinch's voice. "Newkirk. What barracks is he in?"

"Oh, he's right here in Barracks 2, Sir," Kinch said. "The guy with the cards. The one who's always in the middle of a crowd. He's a good friend of mine, Sir,' he added.

"Well, that's a recommendation, Kinch," Hogan said with a generous smile. "But you seem a little hesitant about him. Which one is he, again?"

"RAF Corporal. A Londoner. Cockney from the East End. Medium height, kind of skinny. He has some, um, unusual talents, Sir. I think you'll find him valuable." Kinch shifted uncomfortably and looked down.

Hogan studied his aide. "What is it you're not telling me?"

Kinch met Hogan's gaze. "He really is a good guy, Sir. You're just going to need to be patient with him. He's kind of quiet at first, and it takes time for him to open up. He has a pretty bad…"

"All right, all right," Hogan said, cutting Kinch off. "Just bring him in." He wasn't encouraged. He wasn't really in the mood to deal with quirky personalities or sensitive types. He needed solid men who could take commands and who actually wanted to be part of his team without a lot of persuasion.

Hogan was a little surprised when the young Corporal waltzed into the room, cocky as could be, looking like he owned the place. He nodded in greeting to Kinch, then looked coolly at the American Colonel and snapped off a crisp salute. Confident, Hogan thought, and he has good RAF training. He's respectful of protocol.

"Corporal Newkirk? I'm Colonel Hogan. Pleased to meet you. Have a seat." He stuck out a hand, which Newkirk shook, and waved him to a stool across the table from him.

Against his better judgment, Peter Newkirk was both charmed and disarmed by the American. It helped that Kinch, who had fallen in with Newkirk when he arrived in camp six weeks earlier, spoke highly of Hogan. Newkirk was surprised because no officer had ever shaken his hand in greeting before. In fact, it had only happened once, at a ceremony when he got his stripes, and that felt like a formality. This was actually warm, and it felt like Hogan wasn't automatically looking down on him.

"Tell me about yourself, Corporal," Hogan said.

"Mmmme?" Newkirk replied, eyes wide. He could handle questions, but that was awfully open-ended.

Hogan looked around. "I don't see any other Corporals around here, Newkirk, do you?"

"Nnnnnnno, Sir," Newkirk answered. "Ahm. Well. Ahm, w-w-what do you w-w-want to know?"

"Don't be nervous, Corporal," Hogan said.

"I'm nnnnnot, Sir," Peter said.

"Really?" Hogan scoffed. "Because you sound very nervous."

Kinch broke in. "Colonel, I think you should know…"

Hogan put a hand up. "Let the Corporal speak for himself, Kinch," he said softly. "Am I making you nervous, Newkirk?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Well, nnnnnow you are," Peter allowed. "But it wasn't that, not at first. It's j-j-j-j-j," he said. He scrunched up his eyes. "J-j-j-j-j."

Hogan looked surprised. "Are you OK, Corporal? Something wrong?" He wasn't mistaken. Newkirk's face was tight and he seemed to be fighting for breath.

Kinch leaned in. "Remember what I said about being patient, Sir? You need to give him time to answer," he said. Hogan gave him a withering look then turned his attention back to Newkirk.

The young airman was still stuck on that sound and was starting to look worn out, but somehow he persisted, blinking his eyes as he struggled with the words. "It's j-j-j-j-j," he said. "J-j-j-just, just just that I st-st-stammer. SSSSir," he said, punctuating the sentence with a squint and a sudden look of triumph.

Hogan looked suprised again. "Ah. Sorry to put you on the spot, Corporal. I didn't know." He shot a look at Kinch that said "Why the heck didn't you tell me?" Kinch's look in response said, "I tried."

"Well, Corporal, we can make this conversation a little easier if you want to just nod yes or no," Hogan said.

Newkirk looked a little disappointed, but he agreed. "I don't mind t-t-talking but all right, Sir."

"You're from London – the East End, is that right?" Hogan asked.

Newkirk nodded. "Stepney, Sir," he said proudly.

"How old are you? 25?" Newkirk shook his head. "Up or down?" Hogan asked. Peter pointed a thumb down.

"24?" No. "23?" Still no. "22?" Big smile and nod. Yes, he was 22.

"Single or married, Corporal?" Newkirk looked stunned, then held up one finger. "Single. Good, good," Hogan said. "Parents living?"

Newkirk's look darkened. He held up one finger again.

"Mother?" Hogan asked.

A vulnerable look on Newkirk's face made clear that was a no as he shook his head sadly.

"Ah, I'm sorry about that. Your father's living though," Hogan said. "It's good to have someone. Is he in London?"

Peter shrugged and looked away defiantly. It was clear he didn't care where his father was and while his indifference surprised the Colonel, the fewer personal attachments the better for dangerous missions. But he made a note to get to the bottom of that comment.

"OK. Maybe Kinch will chime in now and help us out. I hear you have some 'interesting' talents. Now you're not in trouble, Corporal. We may need your special skills. Can you tell me what they are?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm a t-tailor," Newkirk said. He gestured to the Colonel to stand up. He came around the table to where Hogan was seated and made a show of inspecting the state of his shirt and brushed off the lapels. "Your uniform blouse is a bit f-f-f-frayed, Sir, but I mmmmight be able to im, im, improve it. But your t-t-t-trousers…" he said, tsk-tsking. "Well, they got a b-b-bit torn, didn't they? And they're too lllllloose."

"The rations aren't much to write home about, Newkirk," Hogan said with a smile.

"J-j-j-just so, Sir. Well, I can patch them so you'll b-barely nnnnnotice and snug them up for a proper ffffit," he said, tugging at the waistband.

"Great, great, we've got a tailor. I'll see you about these trousers later. And I'll be in touch when we have a need for a man of your skills, Newkirk," he said. "You're dismissed." He needed to talk to Kinch about his definition of "valuable." While a tailor would come in handy, he was in search of more unusual skills at this point. Between this Cockney and the little French chef, he was starting to wonder whether he and Kinch were on the same page about filling out this team.

"That'd be g-g-grand, Sir," Newkirk said, looking relieved. "Oh, Colonel?" he asked as he stood to go.

"Yes, Newkirk?"

"Do you know the time, Sir?"

Hogan checked his watch and came up empty. "What the heck? I had it a minute ago," he said.

Newkirk stood by, innocently waiting for an answer, while Kinch smirked behind Hogan's back.

"Perhaps you left it with your wallet, Sir," Newkirk put in.

"No. My wallet's right …. Hey!" It was not in his back pocket.

Hogan was patting himself down frantically when Newkirk produced the missing items from up his sleeve. "Sssorry, Sir. J-j-j-just a little demonstration," he said apologetically. "It was easier than trying to explain me self."

Hogan crossed his arms and looked over the young Corporal with new interest. Hmm. If he could pick his pocket and steal a watch right off his wrist without tipping off a wily Colonel, he might be pretty useful around unsuspecting enemies.

Hogan beamed and shook Newkirk's hand again. "Very interesting, Newkirk. I think I might have some work for you sooner rather than later, if you're willing to take a fly on me," Hogan said.

Newkirk smiled and gave Hogan's hand a firm shake. He pulled away and snapped off another salute. When he spun around and walked out of the room, Hogan looked down at what was his hand.

"My dog tags," he said with wonder. "But this isn't mine." He held up a brown leather object.

Kinch peered over at Hogan's hand and shook his head. "That's my wallet, Sir," he said with a sigh. "Peter!"

Newkirk popped his head back into the room and grinned. "Sorry, Kinch," he said. "I've always b-been a b-bit of a show-off." He ducked away just before Kinch's eraser could bean him.

**XXX**

_**Newkirk's stutter is not canon on the US TV series-but it is on the German-dubbed version from the late 1990s. His stutter is actually quite severe on that show, and I thought it would be interesting to explore how that would impact him as a member of Hogan's core team.**_


	2. Don't Underestimate Me

"Glad to have all of you on board," Hogan said as he looked around his office at the small group of men gathered there. Kinchloe, LeBeau, Carter, Olsen and Newkirk had been selected as his command team. "Now, I know Kinch, Carter and Olsen have had German training. LeBeau, you've got some exposure to the language, right?"

"Oui, mon Colonel, I understand it well and can read and write in German, but I'm afraid my accent is not good," LeBeau explained. "But if I don't say too much, I can pass."

"Great. That gives us a solid core of people who can handle the language," Hogan said. "Now, we need to think about the tunnel system…"

"W-what about mmmmme, Sir?" Newkirk asked.

"You want to take on the tunnels, Newkirk? That's very admirable of you," Hogan said with a grin.

"Nnnnno, Sir. I mmmmeant about speaking G-G-G-G," he attempted. "G-G-G-G-German," Newkirk replied.

"Oh, well, um," Hogan hesitated. "I think we've got enough skills in that area. No need to train you." He had to be kidding, Hogan thought. With that stutter, English was hard enough for Newkirk. How was he going to learn a second language?

Newkirk look simultaneously sad and annoyed and looked at Kinch, who nodded and spoke up.

"Colonel, I'd be glad to work with Newkirk," Kinch began.

"Listen guys, the first thing we all need to do is speak up for ourselves. So Kinch, stop jumping in for him, OK?" Hogan replied sharply. "Newkirk, I said we're covered. That's my final word.

"_Doch, das ist zu schade_," Newkirk replied. "_Ich verstehe and spreche sehr gut Deutsch, Herr Oberst," _Newkirk said. _"Und i__ch habe einen sehr guten Akzent, __nicht wie diese Jungs_."

Hogan was stunned, but he collected his senses. He had made a decision and wasn't about to back down. He needed to level with Newkirk.

"_Es tut mir leid, aber du stotterst sehr stark, Newkirk_," Hogan said. "It's not worth the trouble we'd have to put you through," he added.

"_Ich denke, Sie meinen, 'es lohnt sich nicht.' __Ich stimme nicht zu._ _Ich stottere nicht, wenn ich Deutsch spreche. Oder Shakespeare zitieren. Oder __wenn ich aus einem Skript spreche__,_" Newkirk said. "_Ich wäre Ihnen eine große Hilfe, Herr Oberst_," he insisted.

Hogan didn't like being challenged, but also he knew when he was beat. Saying no to Newkirk's clear desire to put his German skills to use would just be bull-headed and counterproductive for the team. He put up his hands in surrender, smiled, and shook Newkirk's hand. "I like your persistence, Newkirk. When did you learn German?"

"I've been 'ere a long time, Sir. I listened to the g-g-guards and rrread some books and pretty ssssoon I got the 'ang of it. I'm a fair mimic, Sir," he added with a shrug. "I c-can learn mmmmmore. I c-can do this. You won't be sorry, Sir."

Kinch was studying Newkirk with a serious look on his face. "I take it back," he finally said.

"K-K-Kinch! You're not going to 'elp mmmme improve mmmmy G-G-G-German?" Newkirk looked hurt.

"Nope. No way," Kinch said. "You're going to help me with mine."

XXX

**Translations of the dialogue between Newkirk and Hogan:**

(I did my best with my German, but if there is more accurate vernacular I could use, I'd welcome input from a German speaker!)

"Well, that's a shame. I understand and speak German very well, Sir. And I have a very good accent, better than these guys."

"I'm sorry Newkirk, but you stutter very severely. It's not worth the hassle."

"I think you mean 'Es lohnt sich nicht.' I don't agree. I don't stutter when I speak German, or when I recite Shakespeare, or when I speak from a script. I would be a big help to you, Colonel."


	3. Not Just a Cook

"I'll hand it to you, Kinch," Hogan said quietly as he huddled with his second in command in the radio room of the tunnel. "We knew Olsen would be solid, and I always had a good feeling about Carter. And Newkirk is working out better than I expected. He's a real scoundrel, that one."

"I'm glad you approve, Colonel," Kinch said with a grin. "I told you he had some really special talents. They should come in very handy tonight."

Carter, Olsen, and Newkirk were out on a mission, meeting at the Hofbrau with underground agent Jack Sprat. Jack's job was to point out a Luftwaffe officer who was carrying important plans. Carter and Olsen would create a distraction while Newkirk bumped into him and filched the papers.

Louis LeBeau heard the command team's two leaders conversing as he descended the ladder from the barracks, somehow balancing two steaming hot mugs of coffee for them as he climbed. LeBeau was pleased to be part of the Hogan's inner circle, but at times like this, he wondered if he really belonged. He couldn't help but feel like a spare wheel. Everyone had been out on a mission in the six weeks since they had begun operations—everyone but him, that is.

"Coffee for both of you, _mon Colonel_ _et_ Kinch," LeBeau said as he set down the mugs. "It's been a long day. I thought you could use the caffeine," he explained. "I suppose you'll be up until the boys get back."

Hogan beamed. "LeBeau, I don't know what we'd do without you," he said. Kinch raised his mug of coffee in a silent cheer.

"Oh really?" LeBeau said. "I find that hard to believe. Is there anything I can do to help, Sir?"

"Nope," Hogan said. "We've got this covered, right, Kinch? We'll fill you in on everything tomorrow. In the meantime, you might as well head up to bed. Someone around here should be well rested." He winked at LeBeau.

LeBeau didn't let his disappointment show. "All right, Sir. Well, let me know if there is anything else you require, Sir. I'd be glad to fetch it." Kinch could feel his fillings bang with the emphasis LeBeau put on "fetch" and watched with concern as the little Frenchman disappeared back up the ladder.

"He makes a terrific cup of coffee," Hogan commented as LeBeau stepped over the bunkbed and into the barracks, just before the entrance banged shut. The backhanded compliment wasn't lost on LeBeau. He was ready to hurl the metal coffee pot out the window, but thought better of it and got ready for bed.

"He does make good coffee, Colonel," Kinch said. "But you know, I didn't recommend him because of his coffee-making skills. There's a lot more he could be doing, Sir."

"Well, yeah, sure. He'll be cooking for the Kommandant tomorrow so we can get into his spare bedroom and check what that visiting Captain has in his briefcase," Hogan said. "And he's got Schultz wrapped around his finger with that apple strudel of his."

"Colonel, that is not what I mean," Kinch said. "With all due respect, Sir, that's like thinking of me as the guy who can shine shoes and pick cotton. It's a stereotype."

Hogan's expression hardened. "What are you driving at, Sergeant? And this better be good," he said.

"Well, Colonel, have you seen the way he descends that ladder? Whether he's carrying coffee or food, he's incredibly nimble. He's up and down like a shot and he never spills a drop. He's like a Ninja," Kinch said.

"A ninja? What's a ninja?" Hogan said quizzically.

"Oh, you know, Sir. Guerilla warriors. From feudal Japan. In the time of the Samurai? No?" Kinch said.

Hogan offered no sign of recognition.

"Well, they're pretty interesting, Sir," Kinch said. "You might want to read up on them. They were covert agents, saboteurs and spies in ancient Japan. Very stealthy. Like LeBeau, they could scale a wall or slip into a castle and no one would know they were there."

Hogan shook his head. "The trouble is, he's so small, Kinch," he said. "I worry he's not strong enough." He paused. "You think he could climb well?"

"Absolutely. He has no fear of heights, and he can hide really well too. He's plenty strong. And, Sir, have you seen him around the guard dogs?" Kinch said.

"What is he doing near the guard dogs? He'll get himself torn to shreds that way!" Hogan replied.

Kinch laughed. "No, he won't. He's been around big dogs all his life. I'll tell you what, Sir. Newkirk is terrified of big dogs, and I'm not so thrilled with them myself. But LeBeau—he can talk to them and tame them. You'd be amazed."

At that moment, Carter, Olsen and Newkirk came tumbling back into the tunnel, dressed in civilian outfits, and giddy with excitement.

"We pulled it off, Sir!" Newkirk crowed. "May I present—the top secret plans for the newest c-cockpit fffirewall for the Stuka!"

"It looks like a very innovative way of separating the pilots from the fuel tanks, and you know how important that is, Sir," Carter explained. "Production is just getting started outside of Dusseldorf. The Underground is asking us to make a raid on the facility. Their guys are too familiar in that region, and asking London to bomb it would be too risky to civilians because it's close to several schools and a hospital."

"Right. Those twisters, they're practically daring the Allies to bomb children and sick people! There's only one 'itch, Sir," Newkirk said. "We can take out the fffactory. But it's guarded by vicious G-G-G-German Shepherds. And the fffences are twenty fffeet 'igh."

"I can climb it, but with all due respect, I don't see you making it, Newkirk," Olsen said.

"I'll grant you that, mate" Newkirk said. "I c-could try scaling that height, but I don't have the training for it like you do. I could do eight or ten feet, but twenty … well, I can j-j-j-just see myself stuck up there some'ow. I'll be crying for me mum to come get me d-down!" The team laughed at that mental image.

That was when LeBeau scrambled back down the ladder, bearing coffee for his returning comrades. "Welcome back, _mes amis_!" he said. "Pierre, put that mug down and stop stealing Kinch's coffee. I brought a cup just for you."

Hogan sized up the diminutive Corporal in a new light as he descended the ladder as nimbly as a cat while putting Newkirk in his place. He pulled him over, wrapped an arm around him, and pushed him up to Olsen.

"Olsen, I've got just the partner for you. The two of you will head out after rollcall tomorrow…"

LeBeau looked skeptical, but as Hogan laid out his plans, LeBeau's expression turned to unbridled enthusiasm. Finally. He was going to get his chance to prove himself.


	4. Don't Interrupt Me

"K-kinch needs you down below, Gov. He says it's urgent," Newkirk said as he burst into Hogan's office. The Colonel was reviewing plans for the night's mission with Carter and LeBeau. Newkirk was off duty tonight and was serving as the team's runner to make sure anything coming over the radio was communicated quickly.

"He's not hurt is he?" Hogan replied quickly, looking up. Newkirk shook his head. "OK, Newkirk, just a minute," Hogan said, returning his gaze to the plans on his desk. "Now about the gate to the compound, guys. You're going to have to…"

"With all respect, Sir, it's Mmajor J-j-essup and he said it is most urgent," Newkirk continued. No response. Hogan was totally focused on his discussion with Carter and LeBeau, so Newkirk tried again. "He's c-calling for Mmmmmm, Mmmmmm," Newkirk said. Oh, God. Stuck. Spit it out, lad, Newkirk urged himself. "Mmmmm."

Carter looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Call for Philip Morris?" he joked.

Newkirk looked bewildered, but pressed on. "Mmmma, Mmmmma…" Why wasn't Colonel Hogan listening? _Notice me_, he willed him. But it didn't work.

"Calling for money?" Carter continued. LeBeau shot him an annoyed look, but Carter missed it.

"Mmmmma, Mmmmma, Mmmmmma," Newkirk persisted. He finally thumped the table with his fist, hard. "Mama Bear! He's calling on behalf of Mmmama Bear! It's bloody important, Sir!" That got everyone's attention.

"All right, all right, Newkirk. Just get to the point next time," Hogan said, finally looking at the young airman. "Let's head down below, men," he said.

"Jeez, why didn't you just say so?" Carter asked in all seriousness, his eyes big. "That does sound important."

"I was trying," Newkirk hissed. "But you kept inter-inter-interrupting me." He felt LeBeau lay a hand on his back and he calmed down a bit.

Hogan reached the radio before his men, and he was getting a tongue lashing. "Papa Bear, when we say we need you, it _is_ urgent. Please don't keep us waiting again. I have General Dalgleish on the line for you." Major Jessup was handing over the call. Hogan glared at Kinch, then Newkirk.

Newkirk dropped his head and turned red. It was all his fault that the Colonel was getting his head handed to him. He let out a big huff of air, crossed his arms angrily, and snapped out, "Bloody hell."

At that sound, Hogan turned his back. Newkirk was sulking, and he didn't have time for that. He pulled Carter closer and whispered a command.

"Let's get up above, Newkirk," Carter said, taking his friend by the arm.

"But, but…"

"Colonel's orders," Carter said kindly. "Come on." He turned to LeBeau, who was preparing to follow. "Not you, LeBeau. Just Newkirk. I'll be right back."

Ouch, Newkirk thought. That was even worse. It was like being sent out of the room by his father. Not that his father ever did anything like that, but he'd been to the pictures. He'd seem images of nice, normal families with fathers who made their children think about the things they did wrong instead of just beating the shite out of them.

"Wait in his office," Carter said. "Go on. Don't worry. I'm sure it'll be fine."

Returning down below, Carter rejoined the group as the call ended.

"All right. Guys, it hurts our credibility with London when we don't respond quickly. Can we make sure that doesn't happen again?" He looked pointedly at Kinch.

"Colonel, I sent Newkirk up right away. He didn't get lost, did he?" Kinch answered.

LeBeau was shifting uncomfortably. "No, I think he found us pretty quickly," he said. "He just couldn't get the words out."

"It's a liability to involve a man who can't talk properly in conveying messages, Kinch. Maybe next time you could just … write it down? So he doesn't have to talk," Hogan said.

"I can, Sir. But I want you to know, he repeated the message just fine down here," Kinch said defensively. "What happened up there?"

LeBeau looked at Carter, boring holes through his skin. Finally Carter spoke up.

"Uh, I think I might have made it hard for him," Carter said. "I was joking around when he got stuck on that 'M' sound."

Hogan had only been half-listening when Carter and Newkirk were bantering in his office. "What did you say?"

"Well, he was doing that humming thing he does, you know," Carter said. He imitated it: 'Mmmmmm, mmmmm.' I guess I made a joke about …"

"'Calling for Philip Morris,'" Hogan said. Now that he thought of it, he had heard that. "Carter, that wasn't an appropriate time for jokes."

"Carter," Kinch said. "There's one thing, I've learned about Newkirk. If you interrupt him when he's having a hard time with his words, you make it a hundred times worse. You have to be patient with him and let him talk. He'll get through it quicker than you think if you'll just leave him alone." He hesitated, then spoke again. "We can't tease him when he stutters, Carter. We're his friends."

"I... me? I don't tease people! I was just kidding around!" Carter protested. Then it hit him. Kinch was right.

"Aw, man, I feel so lousy," Carter said. "Of course you're right. I didn't mean to throw him off balance. I'll apologize to him."

LeBeau spoke up. "He came into your office, said there was a call, and that it was urgent, and that you were needed down below, Sir," he said. "I think he was completely clear until he started having to explain himself." If Kinch was Newkirk's most vocal defender, LeBeau was his fiercest and most passionate defender. He just wasn't sure yet what he could or couldn't say to the Colonel, and was berating himself for not standing up for Newkirk sooner.

Hogan nodded. "You're right, LeBeau. But the way he gets frazzled and tripped up on his words… it's hard to deal with. I'll go talk to him."

They trooped up the ladder. Carter and LeBeau sat at the table while Hogan went into his office. He found Newkirk sitting on his bottom bunk, looking despondent. He stood up, came to attention and saluted as the Colonel entered.

"At ease, Corporal," Hogan said. He looked at the young Englishman, trying to keep a brave face on but clearly worried. "You're not in trouble. I just need to understand…"

Newkirk sat again, with his head hanging down. "I don't think there's anything to understand, Sir. I mmmm, mmmm." He let out a deep, exasperated breath. 'Messed up' wouldn't come. "Oh…. I bloody well screwed up, Sir, and I'm sorry you got taken to task by London. It's all mmmmmm…" The words failed him again, but he figured the Colonel could fill in the meaning of "my fault." He looked up at him miserably.

Hogan pulled up a stool and sat opposite him. He laid a gentle hand on Newkirk's knee. "I've never been around anyone who stuttered before, Newkirk," he said softly. "You're going to have to help me understand."

"I practiced what I was going to say with Kinch. It didn't take but a moment, and I 'ad it j-just right," Newkirk said softly. "If I rehearse, it's like reading from a script. I can do it. It's j-j-j-just harder when someone throws me off c-course."

He heard a creak at the door. It was Carter, and he stepped inside.

"Sorry, Colonel, but I had to listen," he said with a nod to Hogan. "Peter, that was my fault. I was making jokes when you were trying to get out an important message."

Newkirk nodded. "I like j-j-jokes as mmmuch as anyone, Carter. But you were rattling mmme." Then his look grew fierce. "And what the bloody hell did you mean about bloody Philip Mmmorris, anyway?"

"The cigarette commercial? Oh, I'll explain it later," Carter said with a smile. He sat down on the bunk next to Newkirk, put an arm around him, and addressed the Colonel. "This one is on me, Sir. I'll take any consequences you had in mind."

Hogan nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. What I really need to understand now, Newkirk, is how can we help you communicate better?"

Newkirk swiped at his eyes. He came into the Colonel's office expecting to be berated, not treated with kindness and understanding. "J-just, just don't finish my sentences for me," he said softly. "And look at me when I'm talking to you? Because it's not always easy for me to talk to you, and it helps to know you're paying attention, Sir. Please don't look away from me when I'm t-t-t-talking." It was a struggle, because he felt ashamed, but he held the Colonel's gaze even though his chin was inching toward his chest.

Hogan listened carefully. He was struck by how Newkirk sounded simultaneously vulnerable, confident and determined. He knew what he needed to be successful as a member of this time, and he wanted to do his part. He just needed his commanding officer and the rest of the team to see it too, and to believe in him, the way Kinch and LeBeau already did.

Hogan lifted Newkirk's chin up and looked him right in the eye. "That's a deal, Corporal," he said. "You've got my word on it."


	5. Look in the Mirror

"Ow! Carter! You trod on my foot again, you clumsy oaf!" Newkirk roared. He had just jumped off the bottom run of the tunnel ladder, safe home again, when Carter leaped too, but considerably less nimbly.

"Sorry, Peter," Carter said.

Newkirk gave him a shove, sending Carter reeling back into the ladder. "Get off me, you great git," he said angrily.

Kinch appeared in front of them. "Boys, boys," he said. "Keep it down. We have guests sleeping in the bunk room down here. What the heck is wrong?"

"'E landed on my foot when 'e j-j-jumped off the ladder," Newkirk groused. "Why can't you do anything right, Carter?"

"Wait a minute! What did I do wrong?" Carter asked, rubbing his shin where Newkirk had shoved him into a rung.

"You fforgot to put the fffilm in the c-camera," Newkirk said.

"Well, yes," Carter allowed.

"And you took us sssouth when we was supposed to go north," Newkirk continued.

"Compass malfunction," Carter answered.

"B-brain mmmmalfunction, more like," Newkirk said. "And you scared off that Britta girl right as she was about to k-kiss me, you great twat."

"Actually, that was for your own good," Carter said. "She's Jack Sprat's daughter, and he'll kill you if he finds you messing with his little girl. She's only 17, Newkirk."

"All right already," Kinch said. "Newkirk, come over here and brief me on what you found out. Carter, why don't you head up and report in to Colonel Hogan? We can compare notes later."

"Fine," Carter said huffily.

"Fine," Newkirk spat back. He followed Kinch back to his radio set-up, still fuming, and took a seat on the stool at the side of his table. He lit a fag as Kinch fiddled with the dials, passed it to Kinch, then lit another for himself.

Kinch scribbled down a few notes from the radio transmission, then rested the headset on his shoulders. "A smoke always helps calm you down, doesn't it, Peter?" he observed.

Newkirk just shrugged and studiously avoided eye contact.

Kinch braced himself for a tough conversation. A hook shot seldom worked with Newkirk. You had to jab or whack him with an uppercut to get his attention. He decided to get straight to the point.

"Newkirk, why are you so damned mean to Carter?"

"Mmmean? Wot, like stingy?" Newkirk asked, looking innocent. "I share me fags and me chocolate with 'im all the time, just like I do with you, mate."

"No, 'mean' in the American sense, and you know it," Kinch said calmly. "Why are you such a jerk to him? Why do you pick on him?"

"Wot, mmmme? Pick on '_im_? He's the great pillock what trod on me plates," Newkirk protested.

"Plates… plates…" Kinch said, searching for a translation.

"Plates of mmmeat? Feet?" Newkirk said. He had to grin in spite of himself. These Yanks, with their feeble vocabularies. Then he sighed. All the angry, hot air that had been puffing him up with indignation seemed to escape from him tight before Kinch's eyes.

"I don't know why," Newkirk said miserably. "'E just gets on me last nerve."

"Because…?" Kinch asked.

"'E makes mistakes all the time! And we 'ave to cover for 'im!"

"Mm-hm," Kinch said. "And does everyone talks to you like that, Peter? Do you really think that's OK?"

"Well, not everyone. J-j-just everyone what raised me or ever knew me. Except for Mavis and my Mam, of course. My Da, my brothers, my Granny, the school teachers, the priests, the Old Bill. They all treated me like I was daft."

That wasn't good, Kinch thought. No child should have been on the receiving end of the kind of verbal abuse—not to mention other abuse—that he knew Newkirk had regularly endured. But it wasn't an excuse for being obnoxious to Carter. Kinch nodded his head as Newkirk prattled on and let his silence speak for himself

"Wot?" Newkirk finally said. "Wot, Kinch, wot?"

"Oh, I'm just sitting here thinking about how you don't make mistakes, Peter," Kinch said.

"You're a ffffine one to talk, Kinch! You _nnnnever_ do anything wrong," Newkirk said. "Mmmme, I'm always w-w-worried I'm gonna fffffuck up."

"First of all, I'm about to wash your mouth out with soap, so don't push me," Kinch said. "Second, don't kid yourself, Newkirk. I make my share of mistakes. I just had to resend an entire transmission after using the wrong code the first time. You make mistakes too. So does Carter, so does LeBeau. And believe it or not, so does the Colonel."

"No 'e doesn't," Newkirk said incredulously.

"Of course he does. He was wrong about you, for starters," Kinch said.

Newkirk wasn't sure he wanted to know how the Colonel was wrong about him, and he dipped his head down, then looked back up at Kinch. "Wrong 'ow?" he said.

"He didn't recognize what you had to offer," Kinch said. "And at the same time, he had expectations that you didn't match. He was scared off by your stammer."

"He never was!" Newkirk said, sounding incredulous. "Colonel 'Ogan's not afraid of nothin'."

"Oh yes he was," Kinch said. "And you know what he REALLY was? He was impatient."

"Always rushing me, always telling me to 'urry up and answer, and giving me that look like 'e didn't know whatever was taking mmme so long," Newkirk said with a pout. "I remember that."

"Yep. He thought he needed a few perfect guys to form his team. What he didn't realize was that a few imperfect guys were going to fit together just right and take care of each other better," Kinch said. He smiled. "Get up to bed, Newkirk," he added.

"Wait a mo," Newkirk said. "So I'm not supposed to care if C-Carter makes one mmmistake after another. I'm just supposed to be patient and k-kind and everything will turn out all right? That's a bit Pollyanna-ish even for you, mate," he growled.

"That's not what I said," Kinch said. He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking about an example that Newkirk would grasp. "You know what it's like when everyone dwells on your stammer and makes a big deal of it?" he finally asked. "When guys jump in and finish your sentences for you?"

"I bloody well 'ate it," Newkirk said. "I know I bleedin' well stammer. It don't mean I ain't got no brains in me 'ead."

"We'll come back to the grammar later, Newkirk, but you're right. It's the same with Carter," Kinch said.

Newkirk crossed his arms and rolled his eyes at Kinch. Then Kinch did the same right back at him, imitating the young Corporal flawlessly, and Newkirk couldn't stop himself from laughing.

"All right, I'll play again. It's the same for Carter 'ow?" Newkirk said, doing his best to suppress a grin.

"Oh come on, Newkirk. You can figure this out," Kinch said. "You tell me."

Newkirk let out a deep breath. "Righto. 'E knows 'e's a clumsy oaf?"

Kinch nodded.

"'e knows 'e makes mistakes?"

"You're getting it now," Kinch replied.

"And it don't 'elp nothin' to tell 'im or to get angry about it? It just makes it…"

Kinch gestured with his hand. "Starts with a W?"

"Worse," Newkirk said. "Oh bloody 'ell, Kinch. I 'ate it when you're right." He put his elbows down on the radio table and slowly sank his face into his hands. His shoulders started to tremble.

Kinch watched in horror. He wasn't expecting to push him _that_ far. "Aw, come on, buddy, don't cry about it," he said, awkwardly patting Newkirk's shoulder. "It'll be OK."

Newkirk looked up with a big grin on his face. "I'm not crying, mate. I'm laughing."

"What the hell are you laughing about, you jerk?" Kinch smacked Newkirk across the back of his head.

"I'm as dim as 'e is," Newkirk said. "And you, Sergeant Kinchloe, have the misfortune to be stuck looking after both of us. Laurel and 'Ardy, we are."

Newkirk shook his head as if to clear his brain. He stood up, took a step forward, and leaned into Kinch, resting his head on his shoulder. A strong arm closed around him.

"Thanks, mate," Newkirk said. "Thanks for always 'aving the time for me." He leaned into the embrace for a moment, then pulled back and patted Kinch on the chest.

"First thing in the morning, I'll burst Carter's bubble and let 'im know I'm not perfect," Newkirk said. "But you're the one what's going to 'ave to 'old him when he cries."

"Go to sleep, Peter," Kinch said with a grin as the Englishman climbed up the ladder to the barracks.

**XXX**

Footnote: "Mean" doesn't mean unkind in British English. It means "not generous." Newkirk's been around Americans long enough to know perfectly well what Kinch is saying but he's not going to admit it. Also, "twat' is a very naughty word, and it's obviously not the only one Newkirk knows. Kinch is a little fed up with his foul mouth. As I've noted in my profile, I write Newkirk with the bad stutter that he has on German TV. If anyone has questions about this, please let me know because I have a whole head canon about how and why his stutter exists and how it works.


	6. Sorry Is the Hardest Word

Rollcall had come and gone, and breakfast and chores were winding down. It was past 10 AM and Sergeant James Kinchloe was sipping a late-morning cup of coffee and watching Corporal Peter Newkirk shuffle cards aimlessly at the barracks table while clenching a cigarette between his teeth.

Newkirk looked up. "Play a hand, Kinch?" he said. "LeBeau already turned me down."

"If I don't get this stove cleaned out, we're going to have a fire in here," LeBeau said over his shoulder. "You could help, you know."

"Sorry, mmmmate, I did the washing-up. Look at those sparking clean dishes! And anyway, I came up looking like a c-coal miner last time we cleaned the stove," Newkirk replied. "Blimey, mmme eyes are still throbbing from C-C-C-C-Carter blowing that soot in me face," he said, wincing at the memory.

LeBeau grumbled and bang his broom into the stove. "_Cesse de te plaindre, Pierre_."

Kinch grinned but talked right over him. "Speaking of Carter, Newkirk," he began. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Wot, me?" Newkirk tried looking innocent, but he was no match for that eyebrow. He hung his head. "No, I haven't spoke to 'im yet."

Kinch thought not, and that certainly explained why Newkirk was stuttering over Carter's name. He had noticed that hard 'C' sound was one of Newkirk's obstacles, but he never had difficulty with his friends' names unless he was feeling upset—or guilty. And it wasn't hard to tell which emotion was dominant right now. Newkirk was fidgeting and looking down, no doubt replaying the angry outburst he had inflicted on Carter after the previous night's mission.

"I'll have to speak with the Colonel if you don't deal with this yourself, Newkirk," Kinch warned. "I mean it."

"Speak with me about what?" came a familiar voice from across the room. Colonel Hogan was shutting his office door behind him.

"Oh, blimey," Newkirk said. "Good morning, Sir." He glared at Kinch. "All right, I'll go, I'll go," he said as he tucked his cards in his pocket, jumped to his feet, and banged the door shut behind him.

"Don't slam the …" LeBeau was saying as the thud reverberated. "…Door," he added as a puff of soot rose from the stove, dusting his face. "_G__osse gâté_," he muttered in the general direction of the departing corporal.

Kinch suppressed a laugh and handed a handkerchief to LeBeau. Then he sat down at the table opposite Hogan, who had poured himself a mug of coffee.

"Trouble in paradise?" Hogan inquired.

"Just the usual, Sir. Newkirk and Carter had a little bit of a dust-up last night," he explained. "Newkirk needs to set things right."

"That explains Carter's mood last night," Hogan said. "When he came in for his debriefing, he looked like someone had bit him."

"Someone had, if I know Pierre," LeBeau put in. He shook his head as he continued with his messy task.

"He's got to get that temper in check," Hogan said. "We can't function at our peak if we're busy fighting each other."

"It's a funny thing about Newkirk," Kinch said. "Talking is hard, but complaining is easy."

"Telling stories and jokes is easy for him too," LeBeau said.

"Telling stories and jokes isn't talking, LeBeau. It's entertaining," Kinch said with a knowing look. Hogan and LeBeau looked up at that comment.

"You're onto something there, Kinch," Hogan said. "Well, what's your plan? Should we leave them alone and see if they come to blows or try to help things along?"

"Newkirk will do the right thing, Sir," Kinch said. "I talked to him last night." He rose from the table and banged on the side of the bunkbed to the tunnel entrance. "Don't worry, Sir, I'll stay on his tail."

**XXX**

Carter was sitting on a bench in front of the barracks, , using a pair of pie plates to get some sun, when Newkirk slid into the seat next to him.

"Mmmmmorning, C-C-Carter," he said.

Carter looked sideways and shook his head. "Good morning," he said coolly.

Newkirk let out a sigh and lit a fag. "Not b-best pleased with me, are you?" Newkirk replied. "Well, I can't blame you."

"What the heck does that mean?" Carter said, genuinely puzzled.

"Not b-b-best pleased? Well, you're pissed off! Brassed off. Shirty?" Newkirk tried.

"Huh?" Carter answered. "I don't know what any of that means. I'm just annoyed, Newkirk."

"Blimey, that's what it mmmmmeans. I ssswear, you Americans are ssso thick," Newkirk replied.

Carter looked at his British friend in disappointment. He'd never get it, Carter thought. "You're doing it again," he said, shaking his head in irritation.

"Doing wot?" Newkirk replied. His voice was getting shrill.

"You're being contrary," Carter replied. Now it was Newkirk's turn to look baffled, so Carter threw the thesaurus back at him. "Hateful! Offensive. Rude?"

"You're too sensitive," Newkirk huffed. Oh, this wasn't going how he planned at all. He knew perfectly well he had been a right arse to Carter. He sighed. "Andrew," he said slowly. "The sooner you understand this about mmme, the better it will be for us. I'm j-j-j-j-just not a vvvv, very nice person."

Carter stared at his friend and opened his mouth to respond, but found no words coming out. He snapped it shut, thought for a bit, and tried again.

"That's not what I was saying at all, Newkirk. I don't think that you're a bad person. You're just rude sometimes," Carter said softly.

Newkirk was genuinely confused. "Well, it's the sssame thing, innit? I talk b-bad to people, even me mmmmmates. I say 'orrible things that I don't really mmmean. I'm a bad person."

Carter shook his head. "No, it's not the same thing, Peter. Come on, think about it. If I do one stupid thing, does that make me a stupid person?"

Newkirk was leaning back, squinting one eye, trying to decipher what was clearly a trick question. _Of course that's what it means, _he was thinking_. Stupid_ _is as stupid does._ _'Eard that one a few times, I have_.

Carter gave up waiting for an answer. "No, of course it doesn't mean I'm stupid," he said calmly. "It just means I made a mistake. Peter, just try calming down and dealing with the fact that we're gonna make mistakes. Don't be such a perfectionist.

"Me? A perfectionist?" Newkirk spat the words out like were hot coals on his tongue. "I'm the least perfect person you will ever mmmmeet, Andrew! I'm 'ardly a perfectionist!"

At that, Carter simply laughed. "If you say so," he retorted. "You're just naturally worried about everything, annoyed by correction, and critical of everyone around you."

"When did you become bleedin' Sigmund Freud?" Newkirk responded. He got to his feet and stormed back to the barracks just in time to smash straight in Colonel Hogan.

Hogan had Newkirk around the shoulder and pushed him back inside. "My office. Now," he said. "I'll join you in a minute." He watched Newkirk retreat inside and then turned to Carter.

"Can you give me the short version, Carter?" he asked.

Carter shrugged and smiled up at the Colonel. "Here's how it is with Newkirk, Sir. He says stupid things and he doesn't know how to apologize. Then he says more dumb things and digs himself in deeper. Then he gets really mad and wallows in his misery. He just finished the digging-himself-in-deeper part. He's wallowing now."

"Diagnosis, Dr. Carter?" Hogan said with a grin. Never underestimate this guy, he thought.

"You mean other than jackass? Worried and scared, I think," Carter replied.

**XXX**

**Footnotes.** There was an episode where Carter was cleaning the stove and blew all the soot in Carter' face. I don't know what it was called though. LeBeau is impatient with Newkirk too in this chapter. He tells him to quit complaining and calls him a brat when he slams the door. So Newkirk is not the only hothead who can't control his tongue.


	7. Humility 101

Colonel Hogan entered his office to find Newkirk standing by his desk, looking forlorn. The Corporal came to attention as Hogan entered the room, rounded the desk and took a seat. Hogan crossed his arms and looked up at Newkirk, who remained at attention.

"At ease, Corporal," Hogan said with a kind expression. "Pull up the other stool and sit."

He could see anxiety drain from Newkirk as he found his seat and pulled it up to the desk. Now he simply looked ashamed, his head hanging down.

"I heard you were pretty aggressive with Carter last night, Newkirk," Hogan began. "Is that right?"

Newkirk shrugged, then noticing a look of reproof crossing the Colonel's face. So he spoke up. "Yes sir, I was awful to 'im," he said. "I'm a right bastard."

"Keep the language in check, Corporal. This isn't a formal matter, but do expect courtesy," Hogan said firmly. "Now try that again. Tell me what happened."

At that correction, Newkirk turned red and grew flustered. "Ssssorry, Sir," was all he managed to get out.

Hogan wanted to prod him. _Sorry's not enough_, he thought. _I need to know why you're attacking your team mate. Are you still ticked off because he teased you about your stutter?_ But he remembered an earlier discussion with Newkirk, when he pleaded for time to get his thoughts out. _Best to let him tell me himself._ He uncrossed his arms and reached across the table, grasping Newkirk's forearm for a moment.

"Take your time, Newkirk," Hogan said. "I'm not in a hurry."

It seemed to take forever, but Newkirk finally spoke.

"We j-j-j-j-just made so mmmany bleeding mmmistakes, Sir," he said. "We w-w-went the wrong way. We didn't have the ffffilm. We 'ad to memorize the mmmessage from J-J-J-J, J-J-J-J. Oh, you know…"

"Jack Sprat," Hogan put in kindly.

"Yes sir, J-Jack Sprat. And then Carter trod on my foot and it 'urt so bleeding mmmmuch and I was tired and…" He threw up his hands, not knowing what else to say.

"You completed the mission, Newkirk," Hogan said.

"Yes, but it should 'ave been smoother," Newkirk said, his voice rising. "We should 'ave got it all right. I shouldn't 'ave been worried every mmmminute."

"You were scared," Hogan said.

"Yes,"Newkirk replied, head down. "We weren't in c-c-control of the ssituation, Ssir. Naturally I was sc-sc-sc-sc... oh bloody hell, ffffrightened."

Hogan pondered this. Feeling out of control was a fact of life for Newkirk every time he opened his mouth to speak. It made sense that he would be sensitive to feeling a lack of control over a mission. He tucked this fact away and made a mental note that more planning and rehearsing would be beneficial when Newkirk and Carter went out together.

"It is hard to feel things are out of control, Newkirk" Hogan said gently. "But it'll be better next time."

"Well, 'ow the bleeding 'ell do you know that?" Newkirk snapped. "Sir," he added hastily.

Hogan rested his chin on his hand. Newkirk had so many strengths and was such an asset to the team. But if he couldn't get along with the others, it wasn't going to work. And if he couldn't take orders, that was an even bigger problem. And here he was, dancing right on the edge of insubordination. With one look at the corporal's face, though, Hogan could see he was dealing with fear and anxiety, not insolence.

Hogan's mind flipped through lessons in leadership he had learned from the time he was at the academy. None of them seemed to apply. Sometimes Newkirk reminded him of himself when he was younger—a rowdy kid with a smart-aleck streak. How many times had his father had to pull him into line?

And that was it. Forget everything another officer had said to him. What was it his father had said? He remembered.

"Newkirk," he said, "you still have some learning to do. But if you trust me and listen to me, you won't have to do it on your own. I'll be here to catch you when you fall. We all will."

Newkirk's face softened. To Hogan, he suddenly looked even younger than his 22 years. "You will, Sir?" he asked. "Really?"

"Of course," Hogan said.

"Nobody ever said that to me before," Newkirk said, almost whispering. "I've always been on my own except for Mavis. She was the only one what ever looked out for me."

"Well, that's not true any longer, Newkirk. You have good friends here. You have LeBeau, you have Kinch, you have me. And you have Carter."

"Yes Sir, Carter 'as been a good mate. You all 'ave." He looked down. "I don't deserve such good friends." He rubbed his hand behind his neck, the way he often did when he was nervous or upset.

"I don't want to hear that, Newkirk. You're a good man and a good soldier, and yes you do deserve our friendship," Hogan said firmly. "Look, we're just coming together as a team," he continued. "It'll get better bit by bit. Sometimes you'll be scared and sometimes you'll be frustrated—we all will. But we have to trust each other and respect each other, Newkirk."

"You never get scared, Sir," Newkirk objected.

"Of course I do," Hogan said. "We all do. We just have to trust each other and then we can do hard things."

"Really, Sir? What do you do when you're scared?"

"I prepare and I practice. And sometimes I have to talk over the voice in my head that's telling me a catastrophe is coming. I also try to breathe."

"Breathe? Everyone breathes, Sir, unless they're dead," Newkirk replied skeptically.

Hogan laughed. "True. But you'd be surprised what a difference it makes to breathe deliberately. Try it. Four seconds in. Hold it. Now four seconds out. I'll do it with you."

Hogan and Newkirk simply breathed together for a few cycles. Newkirk relaxesd visibly. He nodded.

"What do I say to Carter to mmmake it right, Sir? I'm no good at apologizing."

Hogan smiled. "OK, repeat after me. I'm sorry, Carter."

"I'm sorry, Carter."

"I understand now that I was rude to you," Hogan said.

"I understand now that I was rude to you," Newkirk echoed.

"And I'll try harder to control my temper next time," Hogan said.

"And I'll try 'arder to c-c-control mmy temper next time," Newkirk said. He waited for the next cue, but none was forthcoming.

"Really, that's it?" Newkirk asked. "Three little statements?"

"Well, you could add 'Please forgive me,'" Hogan said.

"That seems extreme," Newkirk said.

"Just try it and see how it goes," Hogan said. "Go on. Carter's probably still outside. You're dismissed."

Newkirk stood to attention and saluted. "Thank you, Gov," he said before turning on his heel to depart.

As he was leaving, Kinch was arriving at the Colonel's door. "Where are you off to, Newkirk?" he asked.

"I'm going to apologize to Carter. And I'm not going to say I was a right arse, because that's a rude word and will only make him think worse of me," Newkirk said.

Kinch patted him on the back. "Good man. Need any backup?"

"No, Kinch, but thanks. I've got it covered," Newkirk said. He was walking tall as he exited the front door of the barracks to find Carter.


	8. Carter's in Charge

"I don't like it, Kinch," Colonel Hogan was saying as he paced based and forth in front of the communications station in the tunnel. "He's already been gone an hour too long, and he's got two new men under him."

"Carter knows what he's doing, Colonel. He's probably waiting for a patrol to go by," Sergeant Kinchloe said. "It's only 10 o'clock. The Krauts could still be out and about for a few more hours."

"I hope you're right, Kinch. Carter's always fine as part of a team, and no one can handle demolitions better than him. But it always feels risky to put him in charge," Hogan said.

Kinch nodded, but not in agreement. "I've heard you say that before, Colonel, but he's a Sergeant First Class, Sir. He didn't advance in rank by goofing up."

Intellectually, Hogan knew that, but he'd seen precious little proof of it. No man could trip over his own two feet as fast or as dramatically as Carter. "It would have been better if Newkirk or LeBeau could have gone," he said.

"Well, they're both flat on their back with the flu, so there's no way they were going anywhere, Sir" Kinch said. "If wishes were horses…"

"… then beggars would ride. Right, right," Hogan said with a grin. "All right, I'm going up topside to check on those two. I swear, I never saw a bigger pair of babies. A 103 fever, and you'd think they were dying. Get me the minute Carter returns," he said. He made his way up to the bunkbed ladder.

"Sir, 103 _is_ a bad fever…" Kinch said as the Colonel disappeared from view. He shook his head, then sat at the table drumming his fingers. He was nervous too. Carter hadn't had enough leadership experiences in the few months since he'd arrived at Stalag 13. And the Colonel was right; he could be pretty clumsy.

On the other, Kinch had seen Carter lead the men in calisthenics and conduct parade drills. He'd been a platoon sergeant, for crying out loud. Everyone constantly underestimated Carter. Even Carter underestimated Carter. And he was very familiar with what it was like to be underestimated.

Kinch laughed to himself. What a bunch. Newkirk, perennially worried but unwilling to show it and cocky as hell. Carter, perennially carefree but completely lacking in confidence. LeBeau, perennially excited but stealthy when it counted. He could even out-sneak Newkirk thanks to his size.

Suddenly he felt the whoosh of air from above and three men were climbing down the ladder. Kinch tugged on a rope that sent a signal up to the barracks to call Colonel Hogan.

Carter, Sergeant Bellini and Corporal Markowitz jumped to the floor loudly until Kinch heard a loud "Shush." It was Carter, explaining the importance of keeping their voices down even underground. "We have communications equipment over there, for one thing, and for another thing, we're still pretty close to the surface and if the Krauts heard us, oh boy."

The trio trooped in to face Kinch. "Mission accomplished, Kinch," Carter said. He deposited a pile of radar components on the desk where Kinch worked. "We disassembled the radar." He pointed at the pieces one by one: "Diplexer, oscillator, phase-lock loop. Bellini knows his equipment and Markowitz is quick with a screwdriver." He turned to the men. "You fellows are dismissed. Good work."

"Thank you, Sergeant Carter. Good night, Sergeant Kinchloe," the men said in near unison. They stumbled out of the radio room to change back into uniforms.

Suddenly there was a thump from overhead as Colonel Hogan made his way down the ladder. "Carter, you're back! Everything OK? Where are Bellini and Markowitz?"

"I dismissed them, Sir. They're changing and then they'll head topside. Everything went according to plan, Colonel. We disabled the device and removed the key components so it can't be put back into operating condition any time soon."

As Colonel Hogan looked over the components, Bellini and Markowitz came tumbling out of the changing room, chattering.

"I couldn't believe how Sergeant Carter diverted us from that patrol!" Bellini was saying.

"It's the Sioux in him," Markowitz answered. "Phenomenal tracking instincts."

"Halt! Attention!" Carter said. Markowitz and Bellini came to a stop and straightened up. Kinch jumped to his feet too.

"What did I tell you two about keeping your voices down in here? We could be expecting a sensitive radio transmission at any time! Silence isn't a suggestion. It's a requirement. Now pipe down and get yourselves to bed."

"Yes, Sergeant," Bellini said.

"Yes, Sir!" Markowitz added. They scrambled up the ladder as if they'd seen a ghost.

"Hey guys, nice work tonight," Carter called after them. "Seriously, it was fun being out there with you. Boy Colonel, you would have been so impressed with them," he said at the newbies disappeared into the barracks. "Kinch, what's wrong?"

Sergeant Kinchloe was still standing at attention. He hadn't been dismissed yet.

"At ease, Kinch," Hogan said with a laugh as Kinch exhaled and took his seat. "I guess you were right about Carter here. He really is a Sergeant First Class!"

XXX

(It's easy to forget that Carter outranks the other enlisted men, even Kinch. He's an E-7, a sergeant first class, which is also known as a platoon sergeant. Kinch is an E-6, staff sergeant, while Newkirk and LeBeau are both E-4s, corporals. I assume they both would have achieved higher ranks if they hadn't been taken prisoner, which is probably why Hogan treats them all pretty equally and even puts Kinch and Newkirk in charge from time to time. But in the "real" military, as opposed to the TV version,Carter's rank would have counted for a lot. )


	9. Under the Weather

"Auuuggggh," Colonel Hogan groaned from his bottom bunk. The flu had hit him like a ton of bricks, and he didn't even have the energy to climb up top.

"I'm coming, _mon Colonel_," LeBeau called from the main barracks room. He was dishing chicken broth into a bowl to bring into their suffering commander. "Come on, Newkirk, bring your stuff," he said.

"Right be'ind you," Newkirk said. He was carrying a bowl of cool water and some rags.

Newkirk and LeBeau had been ill for a week with raging fevers, muscle aches, runny noses and horrible, wracking coughs. Hogan, Carter and Kinch had looked after them in the barracks, since the infirmary was packed to the gills with sick men, including half the residents of Barracks 2. The rest of the Barracks 2 men had been shipped out temporarily to other barracks in an attempt to contain the illness.

Carter and Kinch had gone about their nursing jobs diligently and patiently. They spooned in the broth, propping the sick men up on their shoulders, and cooled their feverish heads. Hogan did it all too, but not patiently.

"Come on, Newkirk, it's not that bad," Hogan had growled as the Englishman moaned and called out for Kinch to hold him after throwing up four times in an hour. "Don't be such a baby."

"LeBeau, you're not going to get better if you don't at least _try_ to sit up and cough up that gunk," he had advised the Frenchman, who could barely maintain a slump into Carter's lap.

"When are we going to get any sleep?" Hogan had complained into the darkness as Carter soothed a delirious Newkirk and Kinch wiped LeBeau's nose for the umpteenth time.

That was then. This was now.

"There, there, Sir," Newkirk said as he sat down beside Hogan's bunk and twisted a rag in the bowl of water. "I've got the cool water 'ere. I'll j-j-j-just mop you down and you'll feel better soon. LeBeau is right beside me with some soup. It j-j-j-just needs to cool a bit."

"Ohhhhhhh," Hogan said. "Auuuuugh. I feel awwwwful."

"Yes, Gov, I know. Look, I'll prop you up. You'll breathe better," Newkirk said.

"Uggggggh," Hogan said. "Nooooo. You don't haffffta."

"Yes I do. You're all bunged up and can't breathe if you're lying flat," Newkirk said. "Come on, upsy daisy. 'Elp me, LeBeau."

Together they pulled Colonel Hogan into a semi-upright position, propped against Newkirk's chest. Newkirk wrapped his arms around the Colonel and nodded. "Now you can 'ave your soup, Sir."

"Auuuuuuggh. Noooo," Hogan said. "I can't eat. I'm dying."

"Check his temperature before you spoon it in, Louis."

"Under your tongue, _mon Colonel_," LeBeau instructed. "Don't bite on it!"

"You'll 'ave mercury poisoning, you will," Newkirk said knowledgeably. "Mavis always warned me."

"Mm grna die," Hogan said through clench teeth. "Ret me die."

"What does this say?"LeBeau asked. "These numbers make no sense."

"It's says 101.5°," Newkirk said. "I think the cool mmmmopping has helped a bit, Gov," he said cheerfully. "All right, now the soup. Down the 'atch, Sir."

LeBeau started ladling in the soup. "It's good for you, mon Colonel," he said. "Full of vitamins to make you healthy. We traded in 100 cigarettes to bribe Schultz to for that chicken. Newkirk's hands haven't stopped shaking yet."

Newkirk considered his nicotine sacrifice a small one as he mopped up the soup dribbling down the Colonel's chin. Eventually, satisfied that their commander had consumed enough to stay alive another day, the corporals watched him drift off to sleep against Newkirk's chest, still groaning.

"Better get Kinch," Newkirk said softly as the Colonel started snoring. "'E's crushing me."

With Kinch's help, they got the Colonel settled back down on his bunk, snoring lightly as beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. Newkirk stayed put for a little longer to dab away at the Colonel, trying to bring his fever down. Carter stopped by to set up a humidifier he'd made out of a metal bowl, some spare radio parts, and some pipes and tubes pilfered from the guards' latrine sink. LeBeau freshened up the sheets and blankets. And Carter took the first night shift, to be relieved in succession alphabetically by Kinch, LeBeau, and Newkirk.

When Colonel Hogan woke the next morning, his fever had broken. Wilson stopped by to see him and looked over the vitals chart that LeBeau had lovingly drawn up and Newkirk had carefully maintained.

"That was some fever, Wilson," Hogan said, shuddering. "Boy, I guess the flu gets worse with each successive person who gets it, huh?"

"Flu is never a picnic, but you'll be all right, Sir," Wilson said. "Luckily, you never went over 102°. Now if we're talking about fever, let's talk about LeBeau and Newkirk. They both broke 104.5°. I was worried for a while there that we were going to lose one or both of them."

Wilson looked up from his chart at Colonel Hogan. "Sir? Sir? Has your fever returned? You're very red."

"What, me? Uh, no, I'm fine, Wilson," Hogan said. "I just thought of something I need to say to my men."

"What's that, Colonel?" Wilson asked.

"Thank you. And sorry," Hogan said.


	10. No Fighting

"I don't care _what_ Williams did! You need to keep your fists down and your hands to yourself, Newkirk," Hogan was saying as Kinch wrestled him into the Colonel's office.

"He's cheating, Sir! It's bad enough he stole Carter's Red Cross parcel, but now 'e's trying to take everyone's cigarettes!" Newkirk was still twisting as Kinch shook him to make him stand still. "And 'e never listens to orders!"

"Never listens to orders? That's rich coming from you, Newkirk," Hogan snapped.

Newkirk went limp. "That's not true, Sir. I, I, I listen to you all the time, Gov! Well, I try." He looked genuinely hurt as he pulled out of Kinch's grasp and dusted himself off. He bit his lip and hung his head.

Hogan couldn't fight back a small grin as he observed the willful Corporal trying to regain his composure. _He's a handful_, Hogan thought. _But he's our handful_._ And as trying as he is, he does try to be good for me._

"All right, Newkirk, just – sit," Hogan finally said, waving his hand toward the desk. They'd been having a lot of little chats lately, and it looked like it was time for another one. "Kinch, join us," Hogan commanded.

Hogan watched Newkirk and Kinch settle in at the table, exchanging looks. Kinch was a steadying influence on the hotheaded Englishman. Newkirk had obvious respect for Kinch, whose quiet strength made him a power in the camp. Kinch, in turn, could see qualities in Newkirk that few others recognized, including an inherent decency that contradicted stereotypes about sneaky East Enders.

Hogan took his seat and began. "Did my eyes deceive me, or did you grab Williams around the throat, Newkirk?"

Newkirk's shoulders slumped even further, if that was possible. "You did see that, Sir. But he was cheating!"

Hogan shook his head. "Newkirk… you cheat at cards all the time."

"Yeah, but it's mmmy barracks and mmmy mmmates!" Newkirk protested. "And anyway, I don't cheat to win! I mmm, mmmanage the game, to mmmmake sure everyone gets what they need and nobody gets t-taken."

Now it was Hogan and Kinch's turn to exchange looks. What was he saying?

"Hang on," Hogan said. "Run that by me again?"

"What, Gov? What part's not cl-cl-clear?" Newkirk seemed genuinely puzzled.

"You don't cheat to win?" Hogan asked. "You 'manage' the game?"

Newkirk looked offended. "Well, of c-course!" he said. "What's the point of winning? We're all stranded 'ere together. It's not like I c-c-can go and buy a round at the pub with mmme earnings!" He looked from Kinch to Hogan, looking for a signal that his point was getting across. Unfortunately, it wasn't. This transmission was stuck. Newkirk realized he'd have to actually explain himself. He inhaled, dreading it. It was always harder when he was in the hot seat, but he didn't want the Colonel to think poorly of him for lashing out at that dirty, thieving Williams.

"Look, G-Gov. We play for fffags, right? Everything in the c-camp is traded for fffags," Newkirk explained. "Well, B-B-B-B-Broughton's worn a 'ole in b-both his socks and there's nothing left to stitch no mmmore. So if I can mmm, mmm, mmmake sure 'e leaves the card, card game with 50 cigarettes, 'e can go see Mmmmurphy in Barracks 3 and get the sssocks 'e needs. It's j-j-just that sssimple. But Williams—well, he's just cheatin' so 'e can 'ave mmm, mmm, mmore fags for 'imself."

It was an effort, but Newkirk was relieved that he got it all out. He wasn't sure what to make of the confused expression on Colonel Hogan's face.

"So you do that again and again?" Hogan asked.

"Yes, Sir," Newkirk replied, grateful that he had been understood. "Trying to mmmake sure everyone goes away 'appy at least some of the time."

"And if I'm following you correctly, you've put yourself in charge of the redistribution of wealth," Hogan said.

That sounded like an accusation. Newkirk frowned and pursed his lips.

"I-I-I don't know what you mean, C-C-Colonel. I'm j-j-j-j-j…" He exhaled and tried again. "J-j-j-j-j, j-j-just trying to k-k-keep life interesting but fffair." He looked at Kinch, wide-eyed. "Is it wrong to do that?"

Kinch and Hogan looked at each other, in a way that looked sort of reassuring to Newkirk, though he still wasn't sure how much trouble he was in.

"You do make life more interesting around here, Newkirk," Kinch said. "If you could just try not to throttle people, I think that'd be a step in the right direction."

"Exactly," Hogan said. "Just … keep your hands to yourself, OK, Newkirk?" He seemed to be biting back a smile.

Maybe he wasn't in too much trouble after all. Newkirk looked relieved as he answered.

"Except when you need mmme to pat someone down, Sir?" Newkirk asked Hogan eagerly.

"Yes," Hogan said.

"Or plant something on an unsuspecting individual?"

"Right," Hogan agreed.

"Or pick a pocket, Gov? Because it's ruddy 'ard to pick a pocket when you're k-keeping your 'ands to yourself, Sir. C-can't be done."

"Let's just go with no fighting and especially no hands around the throat," Hogan said.

"Not even the enemy, Sir?" Newkirk asked earnestly.

"Squeezing enemy throats is fine. Just nobody on our side," Hogan clarified.

"Fair enough, Gov, because in point of fact I very rarely squeeze anything but enemy throats," Newkirk said.

Kinch suppressed a grin and thought, _He'd make a good lawyer, but I object. _"Remember that incident with Carter last week, when he came back stuffed with gourmet food from Klink's office, Newkirk?" he asked.

Newkirk nodded shyly. "It's a fair cop, Kinch. All right, no 'ands around the throats of friends and allies, and the throats of enemies are OK under direct orders. Will there be anything else, Kinch? Gov?"

"Yes, there's one more thing, Newkirk," Hogan said. "Give me back my watch."

Newkirk sighed, stood, and reached into his trouser pocket. "Caught me dead to rights," he said. "J-just staying in practice, Gov. You'd 'ave 'ad it back by nightfall."

He deposited the Colonel's wristwatch on the table, and followed up with Carter's lucky rabbit's foot, Kinch's cigarette lighter, LeBeau's utterly impractical cheese knife, Kommandant Klink's monocle case, and three bullets from Sergeant Schultz's ammo belt.

"There, that's today's swag, Sir. All yours. Is there anything else, Sir?"

"Just … just try to behave, Newkirk. You're dismissed," Hogan said. The Corporal stood up, saluted, and exited.

Kinch and Hogan sat together after Newkirk departed and broke into laughter.

"I'm just glad he's on our side, Kinch," Hogan said. "I don't think we'd stand a chance against him."

**XXX**

This story references the episode where Klink wines and dines Carter when he's pretending to be a turncoat. As soon as Newkirk found Carter hadn't been tortured, he grabbed and threatened him. It also mentions the episode where Newkirk attacks a POW named Williams by leaping across the table at him during a card game.


	11. Cooler Heads Prevail

"In here, Colonel Hogan. Newkirk, you be a good boy while the Colonel is visiting. None of your monkey business!" Schultz unlatched the door to Cell Three and let Colonel Hogan in. Then he locked the door, shook a chubby finger at both men, gave them a fierce look, and then suddenly let his face relax. "I've been on my feet all day," Schultz groaned. "I will be right outside resting. Just rattle the door when you are ready to go, Colonel."

Hogan smiled as Schultz departed, then turned to face his young charge. Only a few months into his stint as senior POW officer at Stalag 13, he was already growing weary of fishing Corporal Newkirk out of trouble. The latest dust-up during recreation break had earned Newkirk a week's confinement, taking him away from the team's mission at a time when his skills were urgently needed. He'd been locked up for five hours when Hogan finally got permission to pay a visit.

Newkirk came to attention as Hogan entered the dank little chamber, but Hogan waved at him to sit. He crossed his arms and looked down at the Corporal, whose fury had not died down one bit since he'd been wrestled into submission by two guards. He had a cut, swollen lip, the start of a black eye, and one heck of a frown on his face.

"Bad timing, Newkirk," Hogan said as he stood over the Corporal, who was now sitting with his knees tucked up on the only bunk. "I was really counting on you for tonight." Hogan's newly assembled team was just beginning to conduct missions outside the camp perimeter, and Newkirk had a key part to play in a sabotage mission.

"I'm very sorry, Sir, but Mmmmmurphy was asking for it. 'E's been goading me for w-w-weeks. I c-c-couldn't take it any longer."

"The enemies are the Germans, Newkirk. Not the other Allies," Hogan said. He sighed and sat down beside the hotheaded Corporal. "What did he say that was so bad?"

Newkirk just shook his head and looked down. He sat silently for a long while until he felt the Colonel's hand land between his shoulders and start to rub. This simple display of kindness—from a Yank officer, no less—got him every time, and he could feel his eyes well up. _No crying. No crying. Absolutely no crying. Be a man_, he told himself. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. That would help.

The Colonel deserved an answer, Newkirk thought, especially if the mission was compromised because of his childish inability to control his temper. _Good Lord_, he chided himself, _when AM I going to grow up_?

"'E was imitating me, and all 'is mates were laughing and j-j-j-joining in," Newkirk said glumly. It sounded silly now, but he pressed on.

"I took it as long as I could, Gov, for more than two weeks, but every mmman 'as 'is breaking point. They were going on about mmmme in fffront of the new prisoners what j-j-j-just arrived two nights ago. So that's five mmmmore people who won't have a chance to mmmmake up their own minds about me. They've already been told I'm a babbling idiot that they can feel free to laugh at." He was getting angrier and angrier. "Mmmmurphy even 'ad the guards in on the j-j-j-j," he said with a gasp. "J-j-joke!"

Hogan knew that had to hurt. Newkirk's stutter was a source of intense frustration and embarrassment for the young Corporal. Over the past three months, he had become more and more at ease and therefore more fluent with Hogan, the core team, and the rest of his barracks mates. But around the camp, Newkirk was still known as the guy who could barely start a sentence, let alone finish one. Ironically, Hogan had learned, Newkirk was also a guy with a lot to say, and ideas and insights that were well worth hearing.

"What did you say to Murphy when he teased you?" Hogan inquired.

"I told 'im to leave off, but 'e wouldn't st-st-st-st-st-stop," Newkirk said, tracing a finger on the knee of his trousers. "So then I said something else."

"...Which was what?" Hogan said.

"You don't want to 'ear it," Newkirk said.

"Try me," Hogan said firmly. At that, Newkirk unleashed a string of obscenities that shocked even a seasoned military man like Hogan. Newkirk's take-down centered on some impossibly filthy actions involving Murphy. And his mother. And his entire extended family. Together. For a guy of 22 who could hardly get his words out, Newkirk certainly possessed a colorful vocabulary and a gift for expression.

"Well, that was, um, creative. Newkirk, I can't help noticing that you didn't even stutter a little bit when you said that," Hogan added softly.

"I don't stammer when I'm pissed off," Newkirk said irritably.

Duly noted, Hogan thought. "Who threw the first punch?" Hogan asked.

"Murphy did," Newkirk said. "Of course, 'e 'ad every right to do, after what I said. Honestly, Gov, I'd be shocked if 'e _'adn't_ 'it me," he said earnestly. "I got the boot in just before Schultz made Braun and Langenscheidt pull me off 'im. But I 'ad to let 'im get 'is licks in after what I said about 'is mum."

Hogan just nodded and suppressed a grin. He couldn't help but be a little amused by Newkirk's unique blend of intensity and sincerity. For all his flaws, Newkirk had a deeply ingrained British sense of fair play.

"OK, Newkirk, listen to me. Next time someone gets on your nerves, come get Kinch or me, OK?"

Newkirk was already shaking his head. "Sir, I can't. What does that mmmake me look like? I can't go running to Mummy every time I get in trouble, and that's what they'll say I'm doing."

Hogan had to concede the point. "All right. Then you have to stop yourself before you get carried away. Next time you're starting to get angry, just ask yourself: Would I say these words in front of my mother?"

"Well, my mum's dead, so probably not," Newkirk spat back.

Hogan winced inside, but maintained a steady gaze. "I'm sorry to hear that, Newkirk, but you know perfectly well what I mean. Shut your mouth before you say something that makes a bad situation worse. There's no shame in walking away from a fight. Especially when you have an important mission that _I _need you to perform."

"You really needed me tonight," Newkirk said flatly. "You and my mates needed me." He was talking to himself and, again, not stuttering, Hogan noticed.

"We did. But we'll manage to get by somehow. Meanwhile, I'll see if I can't spring you tomorrow, OK?"

"Thank you, Sir. I don't fancy spending a week in 'ere. I'll go out of me mind all alone. But I've got me lock picks, Sir," Newkirk said. "I could let meself out, go through the tunnel in Cell Two, join you on the mission, and be back in time for rollcall," he said.

"Wait. You can pick a lock too?" Hogan asked. "I knew you could pick pockets, but … wait, _what_ lock picks? And how'd you get them in here?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes, took off his jacket, and scrabbled around in the hem. "Piece of cake, Sir. I have these at all times," he said, delicately opening a loose seam before extracting a small set of metal objects packed in a tiny felt case. He gestured dismissively at the iron door. "Schultz carries a skeleton key for a two-lever lock. That's just a deadbolt, the levers and a couple of springs, Sir. Very simple stuff."

Hogan picked up the set of tools. Two were L-shaped, two had hooks on the end, and two had squiggly ends. Newkirk fingered them lightly and identified them: "Two Allen keys, two hooks, two rakes. They'll cover almost any situation, Sir." His eyes met the Colonel's. "Let me come tonight?"

"Wait a minute. When were you planning to tell me about this little talent of yours?"

"The minute you asked, Sir," Newkirk said brightly.

"Does Kinch know you can pick locks?" Hogan persisted.

"He might do…" Newkirk said. Ooh. He didn't want to get Kinch, of all people, into trouble. "Perhaps he ffforgot, Gov. What with one thing or another."

"Meaning what?" Hogan asked, giving Newkirk the stink eye at that ridiculously vague excuse for keeping him in the dark about a team member's potentially important skill.

"Well, you know… 'E's been quite busy. Planning. Recruiting. Training. Digging. C-C-Communicating?" He looked pleadingly at the Colonel, as if to say "Please buy this or Kinch is going to have me in a headlock when he finds out about this conversation."

Hogan was relenting. He let out a sigh and took the lock picks in his hand, turning them around to examine them. "What if the Krauts check the cell?" he asked.

"Oh, they never check after lights out, Sir. Believe me, Gov, I've been in the cooler many, many a time, and from 9 at night to 6 in the mmorning, it's just mmme in 'ere. No guard or nothin'," Newkirk said eagerly.

Hogan considered the proposition, continuing to fiddle with the little felt packet. "All right," he finally said, pressing the lock picks back into Newkirk's hand. "But you wait till I come through the tunnel for you. I don't want you slipping out on your own. We'll leave a dummy in your bunk."

"That'd be grand, Gov," Newkirk replied. "I won't let you down, Sir."

"I have no doubt about that. And Newkirk? You've hardly stuttered at all in the last five minutes, you know," Hogan said. "You said you don't stammer when you're angry. Does that mean you're angry now?"

"No, Sir. I also don't stammer when I'm reading or singing or really absorbed in what I'm doing, which I suppose is what's 'appening now. It's j-j-j-just unpredictable, Gov," he said with a shrug. "It's worse when I'm _worried _about stammering. Sometimes it's so bad that I feel like I can't breathe. I never really know 'ow it's going to go, or 'ow long it will last, to be quite honest."

"You're not worried now?" Hogan said.

"No, Gov. I'm not often worried when I'm with j-just you. I know you'll 'ear me even I do stammer a bit."

Hogan was pleased to hear the vote of confidence, but suppressed a smile. "All right. I'll be back at 10 o'clock. And Newkirk?"

"Yes, Gov?"

"Murphy's not going to bother you again," Hogan said firmly. He meant it. He was going to have a talk with that joker.

"You're going to kill him, Sir?" Newkirk asked.

"What? Yeah. No," Hogan laughed. "Of course not."

"Then leave 'im be, Gov," Newkirk insisted. "'E'll bother me a few more times and I'll punch 'im a few more times. It doesn't make sense for you to get in the mmmmmiddle, Sir. It'll make us both look bad. I really am very sorry, Sir. But stammers don't really go away at this point, and we're j-j-j-just going to 'ave to deal with it, aren't we? And I can't let 'im walk all over me because I stammer now and then, can I?"

Hogan clapped Newkirk on the back. "Have it your way, Corporal. I want you to stay out of trouble. But the most important thing is that you keep talking to me so I'll know I can count on you."

He rattled the iron door and called for Schultz to let him out.

"See you later, Newkirk," he called over his shoulder as he departed.

"Righto, Gov," Newkirk replied.

"Later," Schultz said. "You Americans with your sloppy speech. You won't see him later. You'll see him tomorrow."

"If you say so, Schultz," Hogan said with a grin as he emerged into the compound.


	12. Double Trouble

"This 'ere's the Gov, Lieutenant," Peter Newkirk was saying as he escorted downed pilot William Thorpe into the communications room of the tunnel. He had just arrived with the RAF officer after picking up him up near the old Hammelburg beer hall where a strong wind had driven his parachute. He was a quiet fellow, slim and serious looking with a thatch of reddish-brown hair.

"Colonel Robert E. Hogan, Lieutenant...?" Hogan said.

"Thorpe—William Thorpe," the lieutenant provided. "Pleased to meet you, Sir. This is quite an operation."

"It's dark, dreary, filthy and in the wrong country, but it's home," Hogan wisecracked. "We'll have you back to England in a couple of days. Meanwhile, you can catch up on your sleep."

"Jolly good, Sir," Thorpe replied.

Newkirk was at Hogan's elbow. "Gov, we'll need W-Wilson to check 'im out. He's got rather a bad gash on the leg from 'is landing."

Hearing the hub-bub, Carter peered out from his lab where he had been working. "I'll go for Wilson," he said. "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. I'm Sergeant Carter." The lieutenant opened his mouth to reply, but Carter had waved and then vanished into the tunnels.

"Newkirk, have you introduced everyone?" Hogan asked pointedly. Newkirk was doing awfully well lately, speaking with greater fluency, and Hogan wanted to give him small opportunities to demonstrate leadership.

Newkirk looked around. He had introduced the Colonel. LeBeau was topside, and that was just as well, given the red ooze forming on the bandage Newkirk had taped around Thorpe's leg. Carter had disappeared. That left only Kinch. Hogan nodded toward him.

"Uh, uh, uh," Newkirk began. He admired Kinch. He looked up to him. He would do anything for him. But there was one problem, which the Colonel couldn't possibly have known. Newkirk couldn't say his full name.

'Sergeant,' he could just about manage. It might take a few tries and a prolonged snake imitation, but he'd get through that word.

It was the next name that was so much trouble. To Newkirk, 'James' was simply most terrifying word in the English language, followed closely by 'Michael.' Years of abuse and bullying at the hands of two angry older brothers had seen to that.

And Kinchloe, with that hard-'kuh' sound, was no picnic either. By itself, he could say it because Kinch was his friend. But once that name was stuck behind Sergeant and James, Newkirk was just about done for.

But Colonel Hogan didn't know the turmoil caused by a simple request to introduce Kinch. To his ears, Newkirk's stutter was getting better and better. Making an introduction on the spot might be challenging for Newkirk, but Hogan thought he was up to it.

To Newkirk, however, the task felt impossible. The British corporal could feel three pairs of eyes boring into him, waiting for him to introduce Kinch.

"Newkirk?" Hogan prompted after a long wait.

Newkirk shook his head and prepared to break his silence. Place tongue behind top teeth and slide off, he thought. "L-l-l-lieutenant, th-th-this is is is..." Newkirk stopped with his eyes nearly as wide open as his mouth, and his heart racing. He looked anxiously from Hogan, who looked bewildered by the sudden deterioration of Newkirk's stutter, to Kinch, who was standing up and walking toward him.

Kinch threw an arm over Newkirk's shoulder and smiled. "You've got it, Peter," he said quietly. "We can wait." Perceptive by nature, Kinch had always understood Newkirk, and once he figured out how his stutter worked, he was his constant ally.

Newkirk shook his head, but Kinch responded by nodding. In a moment, Newkirk—looking directly at Kinch as though there was no one else present—was nodding in unison with him. Wordlessly, Kinch had persuaded him to give it another try. He knew that abandoning the task would be harder for Newkirk than pushing through it.

Newkirk looked to the lieutenant and gave a weak smile. "This, this, this is," he said. Then a breath and a pause. He dipped his head down, eyes looking up only at Kinch. "SSS, ssss, ssss, ssss, ssssergeant. Sergeant. J-j-j-j..."

Inside, Newkirk was in turmoil. He wanted to finish, but he also wanted to flee. Maybe he could take off down the tunnel after Carter. He felt dizzy until he remembered to breathe. Newkirk cut his eyes over to Hogan, who was watching patiently, a hand on Lieutenant Thorpe's forearm as if to say, "wait." All right, then. No one was going to interrupt him. He could try again.

"This, this, this is S-s-sssergeant..." He stopped. Make it sound like a zed, he reminded himself. That's easier. Zhay-Zhay-Zhayy, Zh-Zh-Zhames... Zhames. Zhames."

"Sergeant James? Well, it's a pleasure to..."

Hogan's hand flew up to silence him as Newkirk shook his head vehemently.

"I'm not f-f-finished, Ssssir!" he said sharply. He put a hand over his eyes and breathed deeply. Then he looked from Kinch to Hogan.

"This this this is Ssss, Sssergeant J-J-J-James… K-K-Kinchloe," he said. "Best radio mmman in the US Army," he added. "And my friend." He could feel Kinch's arm tighten around his shoulder. Newkirk felt relieved, proud and slightly embarrassed all at once. He really could do hard things, but why did this have to be SO hard? Why did he have to have this stupid stammer? He could feel his cheeks and ears burning. He wanted to run away and cry. But he didn't. He dug his fingernails into his palms and stood tall, hoping no one was looking at him now that the introduction was made and was more or less understandable.

Kinch saluted the lieutenant, who responded with a handshake. "Pleased to meet you, Sergeant K-K-Kinchloe" Thorpe said.

Newkirk turned even deeper red and started to shake. Kinch squeezed his arm again, and he and Hogan both raised their eyebrows. After witnessing that struggle, the lieutenant was going to mimic Newkirk? Hogan had just had a stern talk last week with several prisoners about exactly this behavior. Grown men should know better than to mock someone who was struggling with his speech.

"Sergeant Kinchloe. It's just Kinchloe," Hogan said coolly, with obvious irritation.

"I understand, C-C-Colonel. Apologies, Sergeant K-K-Kinchloe and C-Corporal Newkirk," Thorpe said. "It's just that I have a bit of a stammer myself. Not as bad as when I was a boy, but still bloody annoying. For the longest time, I c-c-c-couldn't say my own name."

Newkirk's jaw went slack. A smile formed on Hogan's lips. "You don't say? Perhaps you and Corporal Newkirk would like time to chat."

Newkirk wasted no time. "Was your stammer like mmmmine?" he asked. "Was it as bad?"

Thorpe nodded. "Very similar. I still stammer quite a bit under some circumstances. But mostly now it's that blasted K sound. Try explaining that to your Group C-C-C-Captain or Wing C-Commander, eh? Well, I expect you already have. Perhaps we could scrounge up some tea, C-C-C-Corporal?"

"I'll make it," Kinch said, laying a strong hand on Newkirk's back. "No protest, Newkirk. You taught me how, and it's about time I tried."

"Thanks, Kinchy," Newkirk said softly. "Now, where's C-Carter got to? The lieutenant needs his leg seen to. Lieutenant, are proper names and introductions 'ard for you? They're mmmurder for me... I don't suppose C-Colonel 'Ogan knew that. but I expect now 'e does," he said, casting a wan smile in the direction of the senior POW officer. "Still, one mmmmust try. And I got it." He grinned triumphantly.

"You certainly did, C-Corporal. And I understood every word," Thorpe said. Hogan and Kinch drifted away quietly as the two men settled down to chat.


	13. Name the Problem to Solve the Problem

_NOTE: A friend read the story and told me they felt a chapter was missing after Double Trouble, so I've inserted this new chapter._

**XXX**

Hogan and Kinch climbed the ladder to the barracks, leaving Newkirk alone with Lieutenant Thorpe. They looked at each other, and with a nod from Hogan, they retreated to the Colonel's office. Hogan slumped in his chair, looking worn out.

"I didn't know it would be so hard for him to make an introduction," Hogan said, sounding dazed. "I would never have put him in that spot, Kinch."

Kinch leaned against the wall near the desk. "I'm sure you wouldn't have, Sir," he said kindly, nodding. "He really struggled, but he did it, Colonel Hogan. He got through it."

But Hogan was stuck in his thoughts, and he went on. "He's so smart and capable. So valuable. But this one thing about him… this stutter is so hard to understand. It's difficult to know how to handle it. This is new territory for me as a commander, Kinch."

"He did it, Sir," Kinch repeated. "That's the important thing. He rose to the challenge, even if it was painful to watch at times." He replayed in his head how Newkirk got stuck on that J-sound, eyes squeezed shut as if he could push the word out if he pressed hard enough.

"It WAS painful," Hogan said. "Seeing him struggle so much gets me right here," he added, thumping his chest. "It's hard to believe it's so difficult for him to get the words out. So..."

Kinch cut him off. "Believe it, Sir. You can see with your own eyes that it IS difficult. But he did it. That's what matters. I think you're more shaken up than he is."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. He's used to these setbacks. He bounces right back."

"You're probably right, Kinch," Hogan said with a sigh. "I just need to understand this problem better. I'm going to ask London for some help."

"I hope they can give you some ideas, Sir. But I'll tell you what. It was really something to see Peter realize that Thorpe stutters too," Kinch said. "He's probably talking his ear off right now." Kinch gave a little laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

Hogan snickered at that, his shoulders shaking with a small laugh. "Yes, he looked pretty stunned. And he probably is chattering nonstop, just the way he talks to you and to LeBeau. I've overheard him, but he never talks to me that way. Not that fluently."

"Doesn't he, Sir? He told me about your conversation in the cooler when you came to see him about fighting with Murphy. The one thing he kept saying was that he hardly stammered when it was just the two of you. That was a big deal to him." Kinch came over to the desk where Hogan was sitting. "He really is doing better, Sir. He was feeling proud of himself for how well he could speak with you. He trusts you, and Pete doesn't trust easily."

Hogan nodded, taking in what Kinch was saying. Trust was good, but it didn't seem to be enough in this case. It was enough with most men under his command. But Newkirk needed more. He needed confidence, too, and Hogan was wracking his brains for a way to build it. And he was frustrated by his inability to anticipate all the obstacles Newkirk's stutter threw in his path.

Hogan forced himself to return to the matter at hand. "So names are difficult for him to say? I hadn't picked up on that," he asked Kinch.

"Yes, Sir. Even his own name. Especially his own name, actually. He's been asked, 'Did you forget your name?' more times than he can count."

"Why is saying his OWN name hard, though? I would think he has lots of practice with that." Hogan was feeling baffled, and he was not enjoying it one bit.

Then there was a creak at the door, and a flash of blue as Newkirk let himself in. Hogan and Kinch turned to look at him, and Hogan's expression was suddenly pained. Oh, brother. How much had Newkirk heard? How would he react to being talked about?

Newkirk came up to him, hands in pockets, eyes down. Yes, he had heard. He peered up and forced himself to look directly at Colonel Hogan.

"It's, it's, it's because there's no alternative, Sir," Newkirk said. "If I st-start to st-st-st-stammer on another wwwword, I can think ffffast and substitute something. So, instead of saying 'j-j-j-just,' I can say 'only.' But my name is the only one I've got. I've got to say it correctly, and I wwworry every time that I wwwwon't get it out. And everyone will be looking at me and wwwwondering why I can't say it. Those thoughts st-start to take over and I j-j-just freeze up. The same thing happens with making intro, intro, introductions."

"Thanks for explaining that, Newkirk," Hogan said, dropping a hand on the Corporal's shoulder. "And I'm sorry I put you on the spot with introducing Kinch."

"Oh, not to worry, Sir," Newkirk said, as casually as could be. "I g-got through it and no one laughed at me, and I count that as a triumph." He squeezed out an awkward smile, more a grimace than a grin. "Anyway, I j-j-j-just stopped in to say Lieutenant Th-th-th-thorpe is settling in. W-wilson's stitching up his leg, and I'm going to bring 'im a cup of t-tea, and then I think 'e needs a good kip," Newkirk said. He yawned and added, "Me too."

"You had a good talk with Thorpe, Newkirk?" Hogan added.

"Yes, Sir. And in case you're w-wondering, we 'ardly stammered to each other. It takes a lot of the worry away, knowing someone understands and wwwon't rush you along," Newkirk said, looking thoughtful. "It's a bit like speaking with you and Kinch and LeBeau, Sir. It's a lot easier than speaking with anyone else has ever b-been for me. Except Mavis, I suppose. I could always talk to 'er."

LeBeau's voice called from the other room, the words muffled. Newkirk got the message anyway. "Oh, the k-kettle's boiling, Sir. I must get that tea to Th-th-thorpe, and I can't let Louis near it. Leave it to a Ffrenchman to ffffigure out how to ruin tea. 'Night, Colonel. 'Night, Kinch."

"Good night. Get some rest tonight, Newkirk. No staying up late talking soccer and cricket," Hogan joked.

"We might need a bit more time for that. It turns out we agree that J-J-Jack Hobbs is unsurpassed as a batsman. But we're not going to get very far on fffootball, Sir. That tosser roots for Chelsea," Newkirk said with an eye roll.

"Up the Gunners, Newkirk," Kinch said, prompting Newkirk to smile broadly, pump a fist in the air and chant "Come on, you reds!" as he exited.

"What was that?" Hogan said, looking amused.

"Arsenal Football Club chants. He's a diehard fan," Kinch shrugged. "Chelsea's their archrival."

"How do you know so much about soccer?" Hogan inquired.

"That's what you have to look forward to when he starts talking _your_ ear off—a running commentary on the games, the players and the history of the English Football League," Kinch replied, spreading his hands wide, palms up. "And don't get him started on Everton. He hates them more than he hates Chelsea or the Tottenham Hotspurs."

Hogan laughed heartily, feeling more relaxed. He and Kinch exchanged a knowing look. Yes, Newkirk seemed OK. Hogan was the one who was worrying. "Maybe I can convert him to root for the Cleveland Indians."

"You're too late, Sir," Kinch jibed. "I've already got him indoctrinated as a Detroit Tigers fan. We beat you in 1940 fair and square, and I've given him the play-by-play," he added, twisting the blade. "Anyway, I told you so, Colonel. Newkirk thinks you're easy to talk to and you won't rush him. That was the closest thing I've ever heard to a vote of confidence from Peter Newkirk."

"Yes, I caught that. It was good to hear," Hogan said. He looked down, arms crossed, deep in thought. "You know, Kinch," he began, "when you're in a command role, it's easy to fall into the habit of talking a lot."

"That's only natural, Sir," Kinch replied. "You have to be in charge and give commands. You can't do that if you don't talk."

"Yes, it is natural. But then someone like Newkirk comes along, and he reminds me how important it is to listen. Really listen."

"You always listen, Colonel," Kinch protested. "You speak with all the men."

"Not like this," Hogan said, shaking his head. "It's a different kind of listening. It's listening to understand, not listening to answer. You can tell he starts to feel bombarded by words, can't you, Kinch?"

"I do see that, Colonel. But once you start looking at him when he speaks, that changes everything."

"Yep. Talking is easy. Listening is really hard work," Hogan said. He yawned and stretched.

"Speaking of listening, Sir, I can hear and see that you're dead tired. I hope you get a good rest tonight."

"I will, Kinch, after I check on our guest. Something tells me I'm going to have to drag Newkirk away from Thorpe tonight. Hit the sack, OK? I'll do one last radio check."

"Will do, Colonel," Kinch said.

"And Kinch?" Hogan said as they walked to the door to re-enter the main barracks room.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Thanks for listening. You could give lessons."


	14. Lesson Time

When you stripped away all of his other characteristics, Colonel Robert E. Hogan was a problem solver. He brought every ounce of creativity to solving dilemmas and fixing complex issues that stumped everyone else.

But could he solve the dilemma that was Corporal Peter Newkirk's stutter?

Hogan knew nothing about stuttering until Newkirk came under his command. But once he witnessed Newkirk's daily struggle to speak fluently, he was intrigued. The corporal was a diamond in the rough—there was so much more to him than people realized, and his stutter was a big reason why he was constantly underestimated.

Hogan couldn't stop asking himself questions as he observed the corporal and took mental notes. What brought Newkirk's stutter on? What made it better? Which situations were hard for him, and which ones were easy? Was there something that could be done to help him get rid of it once and for all?

Hogan had already seen from Sergeant Kinchloe how treating the young airman kindly and listening carefully could help him communicate better and gain confidence. Hogan also knew that Newkirk practiced whenever he had to convey a message from Kinch, and that certainly made a difference. So Hogan had requested advice and guidance from an expert in London. Dr. Millicent Maywood, a psychologist attached to the command team overseeing the heroes' operation, thought speech therapy could help. She sent Hogan a textbook on stuttering and had several late night conversations with him to help him understand the condition and consider possible approaches.

While Dr. Maywood said she could provide some tips and guidance, Hogan and his team would have to handle any training themselves. Hogan was up to the challenge and wanted to see if Newkirk could be cured. But would Newkirk cooperate?

Hogan decided to find out. He called Newkirk into his office one morning after rollcall and cut to the chase.

"I want to discuss your stutter. What treatment have you had for it, Newkirk?" he asked gently.

Well, that was bloody direct, Newkirk thought. He hadn't even settled onto the stool at the office desk before Hogan popped out his question. It was vaguely refreshing to be asked, Newkirk mused, since no one ever wanted to talk about his stammer. But it was still bleeding bold and he felt a little anxious about how to reply.

Newkirk blew out air between pursed lips. Finally he spoke.

"When I was young, some school mmmmmistresses tried to 'elp. Mmmmmostly they 'ad me repeat lists of words. By the time I was 8 or 9, though, everyone j-j-just 'it me and said 'spit it out, lad.'" He shrugged, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

"Really?" Hogan replied, incredulous. "Who hit you for stuttering?"

"Well, everyone. School mmasters. My dad. My granny. My brothers. The neighbors. The priest. The other neighbors." He stopped to think. "The cops. Other k-kids, of course. The barber. The greengrocer. The news agent." Apparently he could have continued, but then his face went still and a sad expression settled in. "Everyone but mmy sisters and my Mum, really. And some of the mmmums on our street. Sometimes they'd cl-clout their own kids when they teased mmme. G-girls were usually nnnnicer than boys." He shrugged again.

This poor kid, Hogan thought. Adults hit him for something he couldn't help? He wanted Newkirk to open up to him, so he deliberately kept his voice soft. "Newkirk, can we talk about it, just the two of us? Can you tell me when you started stuttering?"

He wanted to talk about it? Well, all right, Newkirk thought, but how much was there to say? _I can't talk without stumbling. It isn't complicated, just bloody frustrating and embarrassing_.

"Oh, Ssssir, I've 'ad this ffffor almost as long as I c-can remember, ssssince I was fffour or fffive," he replied. "I don't, I don't mmmind talking about it, even if it ssseems like I d-do. I just, I just need time to get mmmy words out."

"That's good to know, Newkirk. I had the impression it was hard for you to talk about it."

Newkirk laughed. "Well, it's 'ard for mmme to talk about everything, innit, Gov? But I do 'ave things I w-want to ssssay. It's just, it's just, it's just ... I uh, I uh..."

"OK, relax. Take a breath," Hogan said. He hated seeing Newkirk struggle and felt guilty when his questions seemed to provoke him.

"C-c-colonel, with all due respect, telling mmme to relax d-doesn't 'elp," Newkirk replied. "I don't st-st-stammer because I'm nnervous. I j-j-j, j-j-just st-stammer. It's b-being rushed that mmmmakes me nervous."

Hogan had to think about that. Newkirk seemed to be saying he WAS relaxed. And he could see it. He had recognized from the beginning that in most ways, the Corporal was confident and brave. When Newkirk walked into a room, people noticed him, and not for his stutter. He had a presence about him.

"OK. I guess I didn't understand that," Hogan said. "Maybe if you planned what you want to say..."

"C-c-colonel, I _know_ what I want to say. I jjjj, jjjj, jjjust c-can't get the words out the way you c-can." Newkirk was looking frustrated now, and his voice was edging higher. "It's a sp-speech impediment, not a thinking problem!"

Newkirk sighed and continued. "Look, Gov, everyone 'as their shortcomings. This one is mmmmine, and and and un, unffff, unffffortunately, it's noticeable. And it's 'ard fffor mmmme, I won't lie. But telling me to 'urry or to plan better or to relax doesn't fffix it. And it's, well, it's, well, it's, well, it's insulting," Newkirk said. "I'm not dim, Sir. I j-j-just get st-stuck."

Now Hogan was feeling discouraged. He was used to having the answers. But every time he offered advice or suggestions about easing Newkirk's stutter, he found out he had put his foot in his mouth.

He searched Newkirk's face. His eyes were intelligent. He looked open and relaxed. He seemed to want to have this conversation.

"Newkirk, I don't think you're dim, as you put it. In fact, I can tell that you're very bright. I'm just trying to understand what you have and haven't tried," Hogan said. He drummed a pencil on the table and studied Newkirk's face as the young man murmured, "Thank you for that, Sir."

Hogan got up and paced a bit, then settled back in his seat. "Can you tell me about your blocks?" he finally asked. "Would that help me understand you better?"

Newkirk looked surprised. Hogan must have done his homework. That was the right word for the inability to get started on a word.

"Sometimes it's like I can't breathe," Newkirk said. "I feel like I'm 'anging there, gasping when I can't get st-started on a word."

"Remember the breathing technique I showed you? Inhale four seconds, hold it, then exhale four seconds," Hogan reminded him. It had come up in a conversation about managing fear, and Hogan didn't want Newkirk to dismiss the idea. "I know you find it a little condescending when people remind you to take a breath while you're in the middle of stuttering, Newkirk. But maybe this is something you could remind yourself to do sometimes."

Newkirk nodded. "It did help when we tried that together Gov. Do you want to know how my st-st-st-stammer actually works, Sir?"

"That would help," Hogan replied.

"All right then. First off, I'm sure you've n-n-noticed that I pr-prolong my eh, eh, ems. And I repeat my j-j-j-jays. Ess combined with any other letter is very 'ard to st-start." He paused. "It's going to be a long list. You might want to write it down, Sir."

Hogan dutifully took notes: "M. J. S-." "It's hard for you to say 'stammer,'" he noted.

"Yes, that is one of my difficult words. Right then. D-d-dee is 'ard and and and so is k-k-k-kuh, whehther it's a c-c-cee or a k-k-kay, and sometimes I prolong ffffff and ssss. And I have blocks where I c-c-can't talk at all," Newkirk continued. "Usually at the start of a sentence."

Newkirk had more to say about it, to Hogan's surprise. "Pr-proper names are particularly 'ard, even mmmmy own. P-please don't ask mme again to introduce K-K-Kinch to nobody, Gov. I c-can't say 'is fffirst name at all. And ssometimes I repeat words. It's, it's a 60, 60, 60 percent st-stammer, Sir. It's considered sssss, ssssevere."

Hogan added to his list "D. K and C. F. S. Names. Repeating words. 60%. Severe." He stopped taking notes and looked up. "You know an awful lot about this, Newkirk."

The corporal shrugged. "Sir, I know what it ssssounds like, and I know what it's like when I'm fl-fl-fluent. If I talk to mmmmm, myself or to a k-kid or to an a-a-animal, I'm j-j-j-just fine. St-st-st-stammering is what 'appens when you're trying not to st-st-st... st-st-st... st-st-st..." He gave up and took a breath. "You know," he finally said, hanging his head. "Some days are better than others. Today's bad." He shrugged again.

He was in fact struggling mightily today, though it wasn't because he didn't want to talk to Colonel Hogan. Perhaps he was tired; perhaps he was getting a cold. Or perhaps there was no explanation at all, and that annoyed Newkirk the most. His stammer was simply unpredictable, and that made even more it exasperating.

"It's hard for you sometimes," Hogan said, looking at him sympathetically.

"It's 'ard all the time, Sir," Newkirk said, swiping a hand across his eyes. "Sorry, C-Colonel. Cor, I d-didn't mmmmean to tear up about it. I know you're j-j-j-j, j-j-j-j..." He stopped, looking defeated, then tried a different tactic. "I know you're only trying to 'elp, Gov. And I appreciate it."

"And J is your hardest sound," Hogan said, tapping his pencil again.

"The worst," Newkirk agreed. "Sometimes I c-c-can't sssay it at all. I t-try to w-work around it and fffind other words to say, but I can't always do that because if I'm in the mmmmmmiddle of t-talking ..." He left the sentence unfinished, punctuating it with a shrug. Finally, he spoke up again. "I'm always afraid of st-starting to st-st-st-st-stammer."

"What if we just practiced that J sound a little Newkirk? You and me."

Newkirk nodded. He was touched by Hogan's concern and he knew practice wouldn't hurt. But first he needed to clear the air.

"You do know it won't get c-c-completely better, don't you, Sir? That would be very rare. At my age, if you st-st-stammer, you'll probably always st-st-st-st-st… have a speech impediment." Newkirk said it politely, recognizing how much Hogan wanted to help and not wanting to disappoint him. "It is kind of you to take an interest, Sir," he added softly. "Most people are too embarrassed to ask me about my st-st-stammer. They might think I don't know 'ow it 'appens or 'ow it affects me, but of course I d-do know. And I really don't mmmind explaining it to you, Gov."

Hogan nodded. "I understand it may not ever go away, Newkirk. But maybe with some practice, you wouldn't worry so much about stuttering. You said it's the worrying that makes it worse, right?"

"Exactly so, Sir," Newkirk replied. "It's like I panic when I open my mmouth because I know mmy words will ambush me. It gets quite exhausting, really. I wish it would st-stop. But I think I'm good and st-stuck with it." He shrugged again, heaved out a sigh and forced himself to smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll give your way a try, Sir. I don't mind practicing and I want to do better."

Newkirk didn't say it, but most of all he wanted to please Hogan and be part of his team. And he always a felt a little more confident in his presence. Practicing would make him more at ease when speaking with the Colonel, if nothing else.

Hogan smiled. He liked Newkirk's pluck. "OK, we'll start easy. I'll say a sentence and you repeat it, OK?"

Newkirk nodded. This was a familiar exercise for him, even if it was new for Hogan. "Yes, Sir, I'll d-do mmmy best."

Hogan smile turned to obvious relief. A positive attitude would go a long way. "All right, listen. This is a tongue twister: 'A gentle judge judges justly.' Go ahead, Newkirk, your turn," he said.

Newkirk immediately looked apprehensive. That was a little harder than he expected.

"A ggg, a ggg, a ggg," he said. "A gen, a gen." He slapped his forehead. "It's too 'ard. I can't. Colonel, it's a waste of your t-time."

"Shhh," Hogan said, resting a hand on Newkirk's arm and resisting the urge to wipe the tears from the young corporal's eyes. "Just look at me when you say it. You're only saying it to me," Hogan urged. "Start with 'gentle.'"

"Ggg, ggg, ggg, gentle," Newkirk said, looking directly at his commanding officer. "G-gentle. G-gentle. Gentle. Gentle." It was a natural word to say to Colonel Hogan, Newkirk thought as he pushed the sound out. The Gov was a gentleman, he was.

"Good, Peter. A gentle judge. Try it," Hogan said.

Here, behind closed doors, the Gov had used his first name, Newkirk realized. This effort to help was really personal to Colonel Hogan, and that made Newkirk want to try even harder.

"A ggg, ggg, gentle... judge. A gg, gentle...judge. A gentle... judge. A gentle... judge... judges...justly." Newkirk stopped and beamed.

"Blimey, I got it," he said, looking pleased with himself. "I said it!" It wasn't smooth, his eyes had squinted and blinked, and there were long pauses between words, but he had succeeded. He grabbed Hogan by the hand and felt a squeeze in return.

Then suddenly Newkirk looked diffident and let go. Should he trust this? What was Hogan's angle? Did he expect something? No one was ever nice to Peter Newkirk just for the hell of it.

"C-C-Colonel, Sir, why are you doing this fffor mme?"

Hogan noticed the mood shift and gripped the Corporal's forearm. "Because you're part of my team, Newkirk. And you're worth it." He was smiling now. "OK, try this: 'Jam is juiced in Johannesburg, jelly is jarred in Jamaica."

Newkirk accepted the challenge, smiling and trying harder as Hogan coaxed him along. He might not ever stop stammering, but maybe, just maybe, with this kind of encouragement it would get better bit by bit.


	15. When Newkirk Met Carter

_This chapter has been rewritten with a new frame to make it fit better into the flow of the story. Also, there is a NEW chapter 13 in this story to fill in something that another reader felt was missing. Enjoy!_

XXX

It was a rainy afternoon, and Newkirk and Carter were sitting at the table laughing, playing cards and entertaining one another with Laurel and Hardy impersonations. The trouble was, they both wanted to be Stanley. Newkirk had an Ollie temperament, though, so he fell into the role.

"Call me a cab," Newkirk quoted.

"You're a cab," Carter replied.

They both doubled over in laughter. There, in the middle of the barracks, they were having fun together as if no one else existed.

"All right, what about this one, Newkirk?" Carter said through tears of laughter. He straightened and assumed the posture of Stanley Laurel, with his face set in a goofy grin.

"I don't know anything about cutting wood," Carter said, trying not to laugh.

"Well, you ought to," Newkirk replied, his face completely straight. "You once told me your old man was in the lumber business."

"I know he was but it was only in a small way," Carter said.

"What do you mean, small way?" Newkirk replied, sounding highly irritated.

"He ... he used to sell toothpicks," Carter answered. Then he cracked up, and Newkirk did too.

The other residents of Barracks 2 were glad to see them having fun, because it got really tiring when Newkirk picked on Carter. Most of the time they were pals, but there had been a lot of stops and starts in their friendship. Carter's tendency to be blunt and say whatever was on his mind had a way of getting under Newkirk's skin. Then again, lots of things got under Newkirk's skin, and Carter had learned not to worry too much about it.

As for Newkirk, Carter was his buddy, even if he found him to be equal parts transparent and baffling. On one hand, he was so wide-eyed and naive, and Newkirk couldn't understand that at all. Newkirk had spent his life on the streets, sharpening his instincts and learning to spring whenever he was threatened. Actually, he hadn't even had to be on the streets to build those instincts. Being at home with two aggressive big brothers and a drunken father who were always looking for ways to embarrass and humiliate him had done a lot to toughen him up.

On the other hand, Carter had a great sense of humor, a crazy imagination and kind heart through and through, and that made it hard even for a cynic like Newkirk not to like him. In fact, Newkirk remembered the exact moment he had decided that Carter was OK.

It was March 1943, and Newkirk was sitting at the table with his back to the door when Colonel Hogan breezed in, bringing a gust of cold air and a new prisoner with him. The Colonel clapped Newkirk on the shoulder and leaned down. "This is Carter, Newkirk. You show him around." He patted him twice on the back, and then ambled off to his quarters, tossing a smile over his shoulders. "He's downstairs from you."

"Oh, blimey," Newkirk muttered. "Why me?"

Newkirk turned around to see a corn-fed American with straw-colored hair and bright blue eyes radiating awe at his new surroundings. "W-what was your name again, mate?" he got out.

He got a huge smile and an enthusiastic handshake in return. "Carter, Andrew Carter. I'm from North Dakota, but now I live in Indiana. When I'm not in the war, I mean. You're English, huh?"

"Brilliant deduction," Newkirk said with a grimace, shaking his hand loose. Why did Yanks shake hands like they were cranking an engine? "Mmust have been the bl-bl uniform that gave me away." He pointed to the bunk. "You can stow your stuff over there. I'm up t-top." He wasn't stammering much, he noted with satisfaction. A new man might not even notice.

"I didn't catch your name," Carter said.

"I didn't throw it," Newkirk replied, letting a smile creep onto his face. It was the question he always dreaded, and he'd learned long ago to dodge it with humor. Making introductions was hard; saying his own name to a stranger was nearly impossible. He looked nonchalantly over his shoulder, trying to catch LeBeau's eye. Maybe he'd introduce him. But he was on his bunk, nodding off. He searched the room lazily for Kinch; surely he would do the honors. But there was no Kinch in sight.

"Go on, tell him your name," Addison said, bumping Newkirk's shoulder hard.

"Yeah, this should be good," Harper added.

Carter looked puzzled. "Is it a secret or something?" he asked. "I, I don't mind if you don't want to tell me. At my last camp, the MOC wouldn't let anyone talk to the new guys until they were cleared."

"Oh, no, there's no problem telling you," Harper said. "Go ahead, Newkirk."

"There, you've heard it from Harper over here," Newkirk said. "Well done, clever drawers. You told him yourself."

"Yeah, but he doesn't know your rank. Or your first name," Addison put in.

"He c-can read sss-sleeve insignia. And no, no, n-no one uses our g-g-given names here. J-j-j-j-just ssssurnames." Newkirk was rattled now.

"I actually didn't get what Harper said your name was," Carter said eagerly. "Everyone was talking at once."

Newkirk looked around, this time with obvious distress. Finally, with great relief, he saw Kinch emerging from Hogan's quarters.

"Kinch!" he called out.

"Your name is Kinch? That's unusual," Carter said.

Kinch strode over to them. "Actually, that's me. Sergeant James Kinchloe, but everyone calls me Kinch. And this here," he said, wrapping an arm around Newkirk, "is my good buddy, Corporal Peter Newkirk. And you are?" He reached a hand out to Carter, who shook it without hesitation.

"Sergeant Andrew Carter. Nice to meet you, Kinch! So that's what Harper said — Newkirk! I have a cousin named Peter."

"Nobody here calls me P-p-p-p," Newkirk said. He stopped, licked his lips and tried again. "P-p-p-p." Addison and Harper were doubling over in laughter behind him despite the glare Kinch directed at them. "J-j-just call me N-n-newkirk, mate."

"I'll do that," Carter said. He looked at Addison and Harper. "What the heck is up with you guys? Haven't you ever heard anyone stutter before? You oughta be ashamed of yourselves for being so rude. Just give the guy a minute to finish up." Carter turned back to smile at Newkirk and Kinch, while Addison and Harper were stunned into silence. They hadn't expected a towheaded kid to call them out on their behavior so directly.

Hogan was standing in the door to his office. "Harper, Addison, in here. I have a little job for you two."

Kinch watched them walk away with an amused look on his face. "Tunnel 3 needs shoring up. It's going to be a late night for those two." He thumped Newkirk on the back."Look after Carter, Pete. The Colonel said he's counting on you. Good to meet you, Carter. You're in good hands."

Newkirk looked up at Kinch and beamed at the expression of trust. "Tunnel 3, eh? Couldn't happen to two nicer blokes," he grinned. "Thanks, Kinch," he whispered. His eyes followed his protector, who was making his way back to Hogan's office, and the new guy couldn't miss the expression of gratitude and admiration.

Newkirk looked over to Carter and smiled broadly, like he'd just had a blood transfusion of pure confidence. "Now, S-Sergeant Andrew Carter, let's get you settled. I'm living right above you, and if you need anything at all here in our lovely St-Stalag, you j-just let me know. Now, once you're ready, I've got a ffew things to show you tonight. Like Kinch said, the Colonel is counting on me — Corporal P-P-Peter Newkirk." He beamed. That came out just right.

Peter Newkirk didn't expect understanding and compassion in his life. He had no reason to; he had packed a lot of hardship and grief into 22 years. But when he encountered kindness and decency, he took notice. After that introduction, nobody could rough up Carter unless they wanted to go through Newkirk first. Oh, Carter still got his share of teasing, and he could exasperate everyone, especially Newkirk. But then again, who couldn't? It wasn't hard to annoy the most irritable man in Barracks 2.

By the time Newkirk discovered that Carter was two years older than he was, that fact didn't matter. He had appointed himself Carter's protector. In Newkirk's mind, Carter was the little brother he'd never had. And Newkirk was determined to look out for HIS little brother to make up for all the ways his own big brothers had failed to protect theirs.


	16. A Ffffine Mess

Daily speaking practices with Colonel Hogan began as a chore, but gradually Newkirk began to look forward to them. The more time he spent one-on-one with the Colonel, the easier it became to speak with him smoothly and naturally. He read aloud to the Colonel, drilling on difficult sounds until they became second nature, and practiced conversation.

"German," once an impossible word for Newkirk to say, now flowed easily. "General," "just," "job" and "join" were smaller stumbling blocks. Names were still hard, but now Hogan understood that, and they'd worked out a subtle system of signals and shortcuts so that Hogan could prompt him through rough patches. They worked on introductions until they got easier.

There were also setbacks along the way. As Newkirk began to tame his J's, M's and S's, F's suddenly became more difficult. Colonel Hogan consulted Dr. Maywood in London, who said it wasn't unusual to backslide in one area while improving in others. Enjoy the success and give the rest time, she advised; he's going in the right direction.

Then one late night Newkirk returned from a mission with Olsen, Kinch and Carter and struggled to recount what he had seen. He had stood guard while the others implanted recording devices in a room where a big meeting was planned. They'd have to return in 24 hours to collect the recordings.

He was wiping the blacking off his face as the Colonel stood at his elbow waiting for his portion of the scouting report.

"I was keeping watch outside the Hauserhof, Sir, while Olsen and Kinch and Carter were wiring the conference room. Well, suddenly there were Kraut staff cars everywhere. I counted ffff, ffff, ffff…" He scrubbed a hand over his face, then resumed his efforts – "Fff, fff, fff…"

"It's a number?" Carter asked.

"Of course it's a bleeding number! I said I _c-c-counted_! It was fffff, fffff, fffff…"

"A big number? Like forty?" Carter was only trying to help.

"No! Now, w-will you let me ffff-ffff-fff-ffff?" Newkirk snapped.

"I think he means ffffinish," Olsen said. His impatience with Newkirk's speech defect was legendary in the barracks. He'd once spent 10 minutes listening to Newkirk try to pronounce "German General Staff," and he'd never recovered from the trauma.

"Oh, yeah, finish! That's definitely the word he's going for! Sure, Peter, go ahead and finish. Sorry I interrupted," Carter said amiably.

By now, however, Newkirk and Olsen were in full-combat mode, shouting over him.

_"Shut up, Olsen! I'm trying to give my report!"_

_"Oh, for crying out loud, Newkirk, just write it down if you can't say it. You CAN write, can't you? Or is that a problem too?"_

_"I can SAY it if you'll just let me ffffff…"_

_"The word is FINISH, you moron!"_

_"You're the mmmmm… mmmm…. St-stupid git."_

_"Oh my God. I am NOT having this conversation with you. Learn to talk!"_

_"Go fffuck yourself!"_

_"How come you can say that?" Olsen said, throwing his hands up. "You can't say _anything _else that starts with F, but you can tell me to fuck myself?!"_

Hogan watched, slack-jawed, before he could gather himself to intervene. He laid a hand on Olsen's shoulder.

"Olsen, get changed and go check in with Kinch," he softly. "Tell him I sent you to, um, review the document destruction protocols. We need to keep drilling on these procedures, and it's your turn in the rotation next week."

Olsen shrugged and left, knowing full well that Hogan had just given him some sort of code to pass along to Kinch. And he had. It meant, "He's bothering Newkirk and I need him out of my hair, so keep him busy."

Hogan turned to Newkirk and shook his head, feeling a bit bewildered by what had just happened. "OK, over here, Newkirk," he said, wrapping an arm around the younger man's shoulder. "Let's start that again, shall we? You said you counted something outside the Hauserhof Hotel. What was it?"

"German staff cars," Newkirk said.

"OK, good boy. Uh-huh. And can you tell me how many?"

"Ffff. Fffff. Fuuuuuuh. Oh, bloody bloody hell." He held up seven fingers and pushed his hands toward Hogan twice. "Twice seven, Sir!"

"Fourteen," Hogan said simply.

"Yes, Sir. Fourteen German staff cars, all queued up outside the Hauserhof. One or two mid-ranking officers coming out of each one."

"Hey, Newkirk, you said fourteen perfectly that time!" Carter said in an encouraging tone. "Good job!"

"Because the Colonel said it ffff… ffff… fff… Oh, blimey, before I did," Newkirk explained with a sigh. "I can repeat it. Anyway, the odd thing, Sir, is that several of the officers were pfff, pffff, pffff…" He stopped and regrouped. "You know, _Heerespfarrer, Heereshilfspfarrer_."

"Chaplains. _Pfarrer_."

"Yes, _Pf-Pfarrer_. I counted f-f-f-fffff." Newkirk shook his head and held up his left hand, five fingers outstretched. "And three medical officers. Out of twenty-ffffive officers in all the cars."

"Five _Pfarrer_. Huh. Twenty-five officers, and a third of them are chaplains and docs? It's a safe bet they're not holding a revival meeting, so I'd guess they're planning something."

"Yes, Sir. Well, we've got the conf… ffff… ffference room wired now. Maybe we'll fff… fff… fff… ahhh, pick something up."

"Good work, Corporal," Hogan said. "Go on up, get some rest." Newkirk smiled as Hogan patted him on the back, and then headed up the ladder. The stress of giving his report seemed to have evaporated. Carter was about to follow Newkirk when Hogan's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Carter, I need you for a minute longer," Hogan said seriously. He waited until the bunk bed clattered into place above and he heard Newkirk's feet land on the floor, followed by a cheerful greeting to LeBeau. He smiled. Newkirk didn't seem too fazed. Only the word came out fffffazed in his mind, which made Hogan frown immediately.

"Did something go wrong out there?"

"No, Sir, the mission went according to plan," Carter replied.

"No problems between Newkirk and Olsen?" Hogan pushed.

"Not until we got back here," Carter said with a sigh. "You know what Olsen's like sometimes, Sir. He loses his patience when Newkirk starts to stutter a lot."

"True. And he's stuttering a lot right now," Hogan said.

"Yes, Sir, Colonel. It's funny, it only seems to be on the letter F. He said it's driving him crazy, but it happens like this sometimes. He gets one part of his stutter under control and then another part starts to go a little haywire." Carter studied Hogan's expression carefully. "You're worried about him, Sir."

"I have to be" Hogan replied. "I need him to be able to give me a report without a lot of rigamarole."

"Well, he knows there's a problem with that F-sound and he's working on it, Sir. He told me he was practicing every time he gets five minutes alone, which is mainly when he goes to the latrine. Actually, he said six, because that's way easier for him to say right now. SO I went with him a couple times today, Sir, you know, just to give him some words to say. Today it was 'flip, flap, flop,' and he was knocking it out of the ballpark, Sir," Carter replied. "Then he came up with one of his own: 'Fickle finger of fate.' I don't know what it means, but he sure laughed at that one. We did 'flower, feather, finger, future...' then 'flute, fate, fluke, flight, fruit, freight.' He's actually pretty good at tongue-twisters when he stops stuttering."

He slowed down his Carteresque stream-of-conscience. "He had really good observations on the mission, too, Sir. He had all his facts down about what he saw and about the officers' insignia and stuff," Carter said. "It's just he had a hard time saying it." He paused in a most un-Carterlike manner. "But there's something else I noticed. Usually when I ask him a question, it helps him along. But this time it really seemed to embarrass him and slow him down."

"Hmm. Why do you think that was?" Hogan asked.

Carter hesitated, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his field jacket. "I don't like to say, Sir."

"Would it help Newkirk if you told me?"

Carter looked up to meet Hogan's eyes. Yes, he realized, it would help. And more than anything, he wanted to help Peter through what was obviously a tough struggle.

"Peter doesn't trust Olsen the way he trusts the rest of us," Carter said. "He doesn't feel … comfortable. He's always expecting Olsen to jump on him for saying something wrong. He's embarrassed speaking in front of him."

Hogan nodded thoughtfully as Carter continued. "You really think he's embarrassed?"

"I know it for sure, Sir. He told me," Carter said. "Newkirk's come a long way with our little team, Sir. But to the rest of the camp, he's still the guy with the really bad stutter. They don't understand it and they get exasperated with him, and that makes him worried about saying anything in front of them. I don't know if you've seen him out there when guys he doesn't know talk to him and expect an answer, but he's a different guy. He gets real shy, like he's not sure what to say, and he stutters gets real bad."

Hogan realized he hadn't seen that part of Newkirk-and hadn't seen him quite that flustered in a long time.

"Carter, my boy, I think you're onto something," Hogan said. "We've got to help him build his confidence so he can trust the whole team, not just the four of us."

"I'll do anything I can to help Peter, Sir. He's my buddy, and I want to make things better for him," Carter said earnestly.

Hogan smiled broadly and gave Carter a pat on the chest. "You're a good man, Carter," he said. "And a very, very good friend. Now go on up. And Carter?

"Yes, Sir?"

"Try this one," Hogan said:

_A flea and a fly flew up in a flue._  
_Said the flea, 'Let us fly!'_  
_Said the fly, 'Let us flee!'_  
_So they flew through a flaw in the flue._

"Oh, that's good one," Carter said. "And shucks-thank you, Sir."


	17. Chess Match

Hogan had been pondering for a week how to address his concern about Newkirk's squabble with Olsen. Newkirk was embarrassed to speak in front of him, Carter had said, and while Hogan was loath to believe it at first, his own eyes told him Carter was right. At the very least, Newkirk was avoiding Olsen.

If Olsen took a seat at the table, Newkirk pushed his plate away and climbed up onto his bunk. When Olsen arrived at the wash tubs, Newkirk squeezed the suds out of his shorts and went to have a smoke with Carter. As Olsen told a joke, Newkirk suddenly remembered LeBeau needed him to weed the garden.

Olsen was almost as critical to the team as Newkirk was, but he operated at its edges. Maybe this was inevitable, because Olsen had a different job than Hogan's core team: His role was infiltration, not sabotage and rescue. He was out of the camp as much as he was in it, and Hogan had moved him out of Barracks 2 to give Sergeant Schultz one less thing to have a heart attack about.

Tucked away in Barracks 19, Olsen was under the less-than-watchful supervision of Sergeant Brandt, who was older and meeker than Schultz and had blurry vision courtesy of the last war. Being away from the spotlight occupied by Hogan's main team made it easier for Olsen to come and go for long stretches. Slipping in a downed airman to occupy Olsen's bunk was a breeze when the doddering barracks guard couldn't make out details.

So when Olsen and Newkirk clashed, the camaraderie that the Barracks 2 team had built over the course of many late-night missions wasn't there to soften the impact. Hogan had pulled Olsen aside more than once to urge him to be more patient with Newkirk, and Olsen had seemed to listen. But by nature Olsen was intense and exacting— qualities that made him a good solo operative but a difficult companion. So Hogan had told Newkirk he needed to do his part, too. He had to stand up for himself without resorting to fights or avoidance. He needed to engage with Olsen as an equal. Whether Newkirk knew how was an entirely different question.

Finally, eight days after the dust-up in the tunnel, the opportunity arrived for Hogan to have a long talk with Newkirk. A rainy August day had given way to a bright night. Everyone had supper under their belts, and for once, there was no mission, because a full moon on a clear night made movements easy to detect and the squishy ground yielded too easily underfoot, leaving muddy tracks. So Hogan invited Newkirk into his office for a game of chess and a chat. Crickets chirped at the window as the fertile scent of late summer wafted in with the day's last, low shimmers of sunshine.

Newkirk was new to the game, but he was catching on quickly. He had listened to Hogan and quietly fiddled with his knights and bishops as the colonel laid out his concerns and set up the board. He nodded along as Hogan encouraged him to venture beyond the safe haven of Barracks 2 and mix with others, even if it was hard at first.

"We're all on the same team, Newkirk," he counseled softly. "I think you'd like Olsen if you spent more time with him. He plays soccer, you know."

"I've seen him play with your Ivy League lads," Newkirk said with a smirk. "He mmmoves fast, but he hogs the ball. Never p-passes."

"Maybe you could steal from him," Hogan teased.

"Steal, Sir?" Newkirk looked perplexed.

"You know, when you take the ball from another player. Isn't that a steal?"

"Th-that's called a tackle, Sir," Newkirk grinned.

"Huh. That's nothing like a tackle in football," Hogan said.

"It _is_ football, Sir. Proper football. Played with the feet, you see. No hands on the ball." Newkirk smiled mischievously, having stirred up this particular debate numerous times with various Americans.

"All right, all right, we're not going down that road," Hogan chuckled. He knew from experience that once you got on to the topic of soccer with Newkirk, there was no way to counteract his passion for the sport, exceed his knowledge of it, or alter his perception that American football was unworthy of the name.

Hogan waved at the chess board. Time to play _this_ game. He had white; Newkirk had black. Hogan opened by advancing his queen's pawn to the fourth rank.

"My point is, Newkirk, you can't let the other men get you down. And Olsen would be better as a friend than a foe."

Newkirk tipped his head and spoke quietly and confidently. "I know you're right, Sir. It's j-j-just hard when the other men l-look at me like I'm mmad, or interrupt me, or …" He crossed his arms, bit his lip and let out a sigh. Then he regrouped and moved out a black knight.

"Or what?" Hogan asked, eyeing the move. It was a little early for a knight, but Newkirk was still learning the game, and one thing he had obviously learned was that a knight was the only piece that could advance before a pawn had moved.

"Or laugh, Sir. They often laugh. Olsen does, all the time. Addison does, too." He paused and crossed his arms again. "I, I can't blame them, Sir. They don't know what a st-stammer is. I'd probably laugh too if I didn't understand how hard it is to have this… this…" He paused again and fiddled with the end of his sleeves. "Well, you know. This. I w-w-w-wish I could control it better, Sir."

"You're doing fine, Newkirk," Hogan said firmly, moving out another pawn. "I'm not worried about your speech. But I'm concerned that _you're_ worried about it."

"Of course you're worried about my speech, Sir," Newkirk scoffed. "W-we wouldn't be talking if you weren't worried about it, would we?" He advanced a pawn and tried to concentrate on anything but his rising emotions. He'd learned that Hogan liked to establish a strong center on the chessboard and could already see he was coming for him. He could focus on that.

Hogan sighed. "I don't think your stammer gets in the way of the job, Newkirk. I think your fears about it hold you back and get you into unnecessary conflicts, though. You told me yourself once: A stammer is what happens when you're trying not to stammer." He slid out a knight.

"That's true," Newkirk snapped. "But it's bloody hard to stop. Easy for you to ssssay, but hard for me to d-d-do." He stopped and added, "No disrespect intended, Sir."

"None taken. And I know that," Hogan said apologetically.

Newkirk shook his head adamantly as he slid his bishop into the square vacated by a pawn. "With all due respect, Sir, you don't know. You don't have any idea, lucky for you." He paused and his expression softened. He looked for a moment like he was deciding whether to cross a busy street, like he was sizing up how fast the cars were moving. Then suddenly he plunged headlong into traffic.

"Every single day, it's like w-walking on ice, Guv. I'm going along j-j-just ffine one minute, but suddenly with no warning I fffeel all slippery under my feet. Even though I know h-how to walk, and w-where I want to walk, and where I'm trying to go, I start to skid and lose my balance. I'm trying desperately to stay up but suddenly I'm flailing my arms. I don't want to ffall and make a ffffool of myself. But the harder I try, the harder it is to stay in c-control. Everyone is staring, or they're coming at me. And w-when I'm not in control, that's when accidents happen, and suddenly I'm cr-crashing down on my arse. Some people are laughing; some people are giving me hand up. I can get b-b-back up meself, but w-what if I slip again?"

Newkirk looked ragged for a moment, as if expelling all those thoughts had sucked the wind out of him. "I'm always worried about falling, about stammering so hard that I can't finish my thoughts," he said, barely above a whisper.

Then, imperceptibly, he straightened up and composed himself as he watched Hogan advance another pawn to the fourth rank, building a defense at the center of the board.

"I'm not sure I'd have half the guts you do, Newkirk. You really are brave," Hogan replied. But he could see in an instant that praise was not going to help—not judging from the way Newkirk's eyes were starting to roll. Hogan studied the corporal, who was now pouring his complete attention onto the chess board, and biting the hell out of his lip. Hogan could see he was trying to keep it from quivering. Unsure what to say next, Hogan finally came up with a question.

"What if you _did_ slip again?"

"Well, it would hurt, for a start. My figurative bum gets sore from all these crash landings," Newkirk said with a smile that stopped well short of his eyes. He castled his king as Hogan's eyebrow shot up. Was that a rookie error or a bold move?

Hogan sat back and looked Newkirk over. For both of them, jokes were a defense mechanism. Newkirk had stopped biting his lip because his mask was now firmly in place, Hogan realized, and there was absolutely no point in mentioning it. So he responded with a joke of his own.

"So you're telling me it's Ice 1, Newkirk 0," he replied, advancing a pawn to block Newkirk's knight. He looked up, trying to suppress his satisfaction with the move, then leaned forward on the table that separated them.

Newkirk laughed. "Yes, Sir, exactly. Actually, it's Stammer 1, Newkirk 0, all bloody day long." He downshifted to a small smile. "Although the truth is, Sir, if we're really keeping score, I do w-w-win quite a few rounds. Hardly anyone knows it but me, of course, but I do win because I work bloody hard at it."

That was better, Hogan thought. At some level, Newkirk knew that, however difficult his stutter was, he was indeed making progress against it.

"How do you work at it? What's an example of how you win?" Hogan asked.

Newkirk tipped his head, looking reluctant for a moment, though whether that was because his knight was blocked or in response to Hogan's question was anyone's guess. "W-well, Sir, I anticipate every conversation, trying to figure out where the slippery ice is going to be, and I skate around it. I substitute words, or I run up to the sentence, or I talk with a bit of a growl, because I don't stammer when I do that. Sir, there was a time when I was younger that I couldn't have got a sentence out around people I didn't know. Now, mmmost of the time I actually don't stammer. And of course, I talk with you now, Sir. That used to be mmmuch harder."

"I remember. I thought you were nervous or afraid. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Of course, I figured that out pretty quickly after you took my watch and my wallet." Hogan smirked and shook his head.

"Then I fooled you, because it was bloody scary," Newkirk answered. "I _was_ afraid, because I thought you'd hear me stammer and decide I was an idiot. It was much easier for me show you than to tell you what I could do. It, it was like that for mmmonths, really, Guv." He returned his knight to the back row and thought about ways to loosen the protection of Hogan's pawn. "I mean, you _are_ an officer, Sir."

"Good move," Hogan said. "Protect your knight." He looked up. "And I'm pleased to hear you noticed the eagles," he smirked. "I do have to wonder sometimes."

"You forced the move. I had to retreat or that pawn would get me," Newkirk replied with a shrug. "How do you look out for _your_ knight, then? How do you protect him?"

Hogan studied the board. "My knights are OK," he said. "Look, one of them is still in its home position; the other is guarded behind these three pawns." Newkirk was still learning the game, and Hogan didn't mind stopping to explain strategy.

He looked up and saw that Newkirk was blushing slightly, eyes down. Realization dawned. He wasn't talking about the game.

Hogan nodded. "Ah, _my_ knight. Yes, you _are_ a knight, aren't you? You play close to where the action is. The worst place for you is at the edge of the board. I need you in the middle." He stopped and pondered for a moment. "You're strong enough to be the rook. But you'd go out of your mind being blocked in for half the game, wouldn't you?"

Newkirk grinned, relieved to be understood. "I think I would, Sir. And anyway, everyone knows Kinch is the rook. He can exert control on every square on the board without exposing himself to a great deal of risk. But the knight's in the game early. The bishop's all right too, but I think I like the knight the best," he said, picking up the chessman and examining it before placing it back on the board. "He's a bit stealthy, with his jumps and crooked moves."

"You said 'crooked,' not me," Hogan joked. I think I would have said 'unique,' or 'unconventional,' maybe. The thing about knights, Newkirk, is that they're vulnerable to traps. If you're on a light square, you've got to be focused on where your opponent's dark-square bishop is, because they could take you out in their next move."

"Thinking ahead is what I do, Sir. Couldn't get a sentence out if I didn't. But knights can also move to – what did you call it, Sir? - an outpost."

"Yes. If there's a hole in the other guy's pawn structure, that can work," Hogan said. "But a knight on the edge of the board is severely limited in terms of movement. Like I said, I need you in the middle."

Newkirk smiled ever so slightly. "That's where I want to be, Sir. But I need your help getting the other chessmen off my back. I, I, I can't let you ffffight my battles for me, but I also can't do it alone. I need a king in my corner."

"Technically, I think I'm the queen," Hogan said as Newkirk sputtered out a laugh. "Not like that, soldier," he added with mock sternness. "There's a lot I can do on the board. But in the end, the game can continue without me. Allied Command is the king, the indispensable one."

"Not around here, Sir," Newkirk said.

"Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence, Newkirk," Hogan said sincerely. "The thing about chess is," he said, tapping the board, "you can't win with one piece. In the end, they are all important. You have to play them all, and play them well. And the pieces have to work together."


	18. Resignation

Two hours later, Hogan was staring at the chessboard, wondering what had just happened.

After a candid conversation in which Hogan coached Newkirk on ways to get along with Olsen, the two men settled into a quiet rhythm as the chess game absorbed their attention. It was 9:45 when Corporal Langenscheidt knocked at the barracks door, warning of lights out in 15 minutes.

Hogan and Newkirk had exchanged a few pawns, defended their positions, avoided pin-downs, developed their minor pieces, attacked and retreated. For a time, Hogan was sure he had the upper hand over his pupil; he'd been up one or two pawns for much of the game, and had captured a bishop early. But after 12 moves, it was obvious that Newkirk had a strong game underway. After Hogan's twentieth move, Newkirk accelerated his attack. He took down a pawn, removing his first obstacle on the path to the white king, and prepared to double his rooks in one file.

Feeling pressure, Hogan moved his own rook to the open line, getting ready to protect his bishop against certain attack by the black rooks. Newkirk marched his second rook behind his first one. Hogan defended his second-rank bishop by moving it up to the third rank, between his other bishop and a knight, seeing that a retreat would have put Newkirk's knight in position to make a series of captures.

Newkirk's rook swooped in to take down a bishop; Hogan recaptured. They were each down a rook now. Hogan's king captured Newkirk's remaining rook; his own last rook was stranded in a corner, unable to maneuver.

Newkirk slid his queen out from the seventh rank to the fourth, capturing a pawn and positioned for a sacrifice. Hogan tried not to let his jaw hang open, but he had rarely been defeated so creatively. His king could take out the black queen, but one move by the black bishop would put him in checkmate. And if he retreated, there were too many ways the black queen and her two knights could conquer him.

Hogan looked over the board, then up at Newkirk, then back down. He laid down his king in resignation.

The English corporal looked up, startled. "Why did you do that, Sir?" he asked.

"Because I can't win. I'm resigning. You slaughtered me, Newkirk," Hogan replied with a laugh. "I thought you hadn't played before."

"I haven't, Sir. Everything I know, I l-learned from you, and from w-watching you play against Kinch," Newkirk said.

"Really? What was that maneuver with the two rooks? You didn't get that from me," Hogan said.

"Well, Sir, I imagined we were in the wwwwoods outside camp, j-just Kinch and me guarding you. I was covering for you, and Kinch had my back."

"Did you know you were going to lose both rooks, Newkirk? Because that looked pretty risky… pretty crazy… when you were doing it," Hogan said.

Newkirk picked up a rook and turned it around in his fingers, then picked up the other one. "I thought I might, Sir, but I knew it would be worth the sacrifice. I needed a way to ffforce the opposing king out into the open, and the only way to do it was to give up a rook. Once I did that, my queen—that's you, Sir-had her p-p-pick of mmmoves." He put down the chessmen as Hogan packed up his set and cast a glance at the colonel. "So it was all right, Sir? To do it that way?"

Hogan stood up and faced his corporal. "It was very creative, Newkirk. Surprising and effective. So, yes. It was more than all right."

"Right-o, then," Newkirk said solemnly. He watched as Hogan tucked the set into his footlocker. "It's a game for gentlemen, though, isn't it? Not really for the likes of me. It's a b-b-bit of a surprise that I would catch on at all. Blimey, I'd have a hard time explaining this to the lads at the pub," he added with a laugh.

"Explaining the game?" Hogan asked.

"No, I mean explaining how I learned to pl-pl-play it," Newkirk replied. "No one would believe it."

"Well, I believe it," Hogan said. "You're smart. You're focused. And when you were down, you didn't wait passively; you used stealth to get in position to attack."

Newkirk looked stunned at the compliment and flushed a little, tugging at the end of his sweater before he finally replied. "What I mmmmean, Sir, is that _you_ taught it to me. You're an officer and you taught me this game," Newkirk replied. "N-n-no one would believe I learned it from a c-c-c-colonel."

Hogan wasn't grasping what was so extraordinary about that. They were two men in a prison camp, on the same side, close colleagues, with hours to kill and things to discuss.

"I'm not sure I follow you, Newkirk," Hogan replied. "Why wouldn't I teach you?"

"W-well, because mmmost people w-wouldn't bother w-with mmme, Sir," Newkirk said diffidently. "A c-common thief who c-can't even talk right." He shrugged his shoulders and looked at Hogan impassively as if that made all the sense in the world.


	19. A Friendly Kind of Fighting

Anger welled up inside of Hogan. What was Newkirk saying? How could he value himself so little? And how could he imagine that Hogan thought the same? Newkirk was looking on quizzically as Hogan struggled to tamp down the fury he felt inside. His heart was in his mouth when he finally spoke.

"Teaching you something is not a bother, Newkirk. It's my duty as your commanding officer to be involved in your development. It's also a pleasure to see you grasp things so quickly. And even if you weren't as smart as you are, you'd be worth my time, because you are a good man," Hogan said firmly. "Now get ready for bed, and get a good night's sleep. We don't often get a night off, and I need my best men strong and rested."

Newkirk didn't budge; it was his turn to look agape. Finally he snapped his jaw back into place, gave a brisk nod and turned to leave. But as he reached Hogan's door, he pivoted back.

"Sir?" he asked.

"Yes, Newkirk?" Hogan replied, turning in his direction.

Newkirk stood ramrod straight and snapped off a salute. "Thank you, Sir. And good night." Then he dipped his head, gulped, and looked up bashfully at Hogan. "Th-thank you fffffor caring about, um, all of us, Sir," he said softly.

Hogan smiled affectionately as Newkirk disappeared into the barracks. He knew what Newkirk was trying to say. "All of us" was true, too, and it was easier for him to grasp than "me."

XXX

The next morning was sunny and bright, with the crispness of fall starting to assert itself as the last days of August faded. As the men gathered in the main room for the coffee and hunks of dry bread that constituted breakfast, Hogan pulled Kinch aside. Nothing had come in from London for the day ahead; the full moon was still hindering routine night missions.

"Time for some team building, then," Hogan said softly to Kinch. He slipped him a note. "Take this to the barracks chief in 19," he said. "We'll get a soccer game going after chores are completed."

"Nineteen, huh?" Kinch said. "Are there enough Europeans in there to play the game right?"

"A couple. But mostly Americans," Hogan replied. "We're going to teach them."

"Us?" Kinch asked, his eyebrow climbing. "Define 'us,' Sir."

"Mostly Newkirk with a little help from Garlotti, LeBeau and Olsen," Hogan replied.

XXX

As soon as Hogan announced plans for a friendly football match with another barracks, Newkirk wasted no time suiting up for it. While the other men lingered over their coffee to avoid their chores, Newkirk gulped down his drink, performed his KP duties, and then fished his shorts and jersey out of his footlocker. He was in his kit and standing by his bed juggling a ball between his feet until LeBeau prevailed on him to stop.

"Please, mon pote, wait until we're outside. You remember the Coffeepot Incident of 1941," LeBeau said. "The others are still eating."

"That _was_ rather a mess," Newkirk conceded with a wince, as visions of a football flying through the barracks came crashing back. "All right, then."

So Newkirk sat down on Carter's bunk, lit a cigarette and settled for rolling the ball back and forth under his foot. He turned his thoughts to who might be on the Barracks 2 roster. There weren't many men with the right skills; the best formation they could hope for would probably be eight a side. He and Garlotti were both solid players, and Kinch was a natural athlete. LeBeau knew how to handle a ball. His on-field tactics consisted mostly of calling out other players' names, but still, he'd be all right. Carter was scrappy and interested; he'd do if he could just keep his bloody hands off the ball. Well, somehow they would manage to scrounge together a side from the rest of the barracks. Maybe the colonel would concede to play for once.

Finally it was time to go. Newkirk jogged across the parade ground and waited for the other team to assemble. Colonel Hogan hadn't mentioned that it would be Barracks 19, and as soon as Newkirk saw Olsen rounding the corner, he felt irritation, offset by a surge of optimism. He didn't like Olsen, but he could beat him any day, he thought.

Newkirk was one of a handful of men with a pair of cleats that actually fit, courtesy of a Red Cross shipment the previous fall, before Hogan and the rest of the Americans had arrived. He dug them into the ground to scrape out the pitch lines as the teams assembled.

He and two other Englishmen, Hopkins and Padgett from Barracks 19, were just touching up the penalty lines when Hogan called everyone to center circle. Barracks 2 gathered on one side of the center line, Barracks 19 on the other.

Hogan smiled. "Nope," he said, "you've got it wrong, fellas. We're not playing barracks against barracks. We're gonna mix it up this time."

He started calling out names. "LeBeau, Garlotti, Hopkins, Hanrahan, Foster, Antonelli… you're on offense."

"Newkirk, Parker, Greenberg, Padgett, Mills, Olsen… defense. OK, each team, pick your captain and then choose the rest of your roster."

"Side, sir," Newkirk muttered.

"What's that?" Hogan responded.

"Each side, Sir, not each team," Newkirk said sourly. "We have sides in football." He immediately regretted saying it, because the colonel had been so kind to him and Newkirk knew he shouldn't correct him publicly. But the fun was rapidly going out of this match and he wasn't doing a good job hiding his frustration.

"Duly noted, corporal," Hogan said cheerfully. "Since you're so knowledgeable, you should captain your side. Any objections, men?" There were none—Newkirk probably would have been picked anyway on the strength of his skills.

"All right then," Hogan said. "Padgett and …" he took his time looking over the assembled men "Olsen. Yes, Padgett and Olsen will assist you, Newkirk. Other team? Garlotti's captain; LeBeau and Hanrahan can assist. Now, pick your team names."

"The Yankees," Olsen said smugly.

"No baseball names," Hogan overruled. "Try again."

"The Highwaymen," Padgett piped in. Newkirk nodded in approval.

"Bandits," Garlotti responded. LeBeau slapped him on the back agreeably.

"OK, men. Five minutes, then kickoff," Hogan said. "And remember—teamwork matters."


	20. Comfort Zone

_(Six months earlier)_

"… And as you know, we have some new arrivals this week in Barracks 23 and Barracks 24," Hogan said as the morning meeting drew to a close. "Kinch has talked to the barracks chiefs on that side of camp, and everything checks out with these guys. I'm not ready to brief them on the operation, but it'd be a good idea to start getting acquainted with them so we can size up any talents they might have."

"Any particular qualities you're looking for, Sir?" Olsen asked.

"German language skills, obviously. We could always use more scroungers to help us gather supplies. And some coal miners would be a lucky find," Hogan joked. "Quite seriously, fellas, just get to know them. We can't work with them if we don't know who they are." He saw Carter nodding eagerly and smiled at the young American. "Carter, can I count on you to learn everyone's name and start building profiles?"

"Sure thing, Sir. I was just thinking we could use some guys who could help us in the motor pool, and boy if we found another tailor or two that would sure make things easier for Newkirk, and…"

"I'm ffffine, Andrew," Newkirk said irritably. "I'm getting everything done. I d-d-don't need no help."

"That's not what you said last week when you were trying to get six sets of civilian clothes ready for the guys from Stalag 8," Carter said. "You were just saying…"

Hogan cut him off. "We'll find all kinds of skills, I'm sure, Carter. You go first. Take Newkirk with you," he said with a look at the Englishman that left no wiggle room, and "start getting to know them. Garlotti and Olsen, you can stop by later this afternoon." He searched the faces again. "Addison, you'll be the record-keeper. The rest of you, coordinate any observations with him. Dismissed, men. LeBeau, join me in my office to talk about the dinner tonight. Kinch, we could use you for this…"

As the crowd dispersed, men busied themselves with chores and activities. Several gathered up their laundry to take advantage of the sunny day for drying clothes. Others settled into their bunks to read or write letters. Carter and Newkirk lingered at the table, sipping coffee. One man was eager to go out and make new acquaintances; one was not.

Carter deliberately kept his tone cheerful "OK, let's head over to Barracks 23 when we finish our coffee, Newkirk. Boy, that's a big barracks. They must have 40 guys crammed in there. You know, we're kind of lucky we got here first, 'cause…"

"We're not lucky," Newkirk snapped. "We've been here the longest, and I've b-b-been here a lllot longer than you've done."

"Yeah, but our barracks is smaller. That makes it better."

"It's also older," Newkirk grumbled. "The wood's turning to pulp. Every time it rains, I wake up in a bleeding puddle."

"Well, you know, there's treatments for that," Carter said, venturing a joke. It went over like a lead balloon.

"That's not what I bleeding meant," Newkirk replied. "Go by yourself," he added.

"The Colonel just said the both of us should go," Carter replied firmly. "I don't think he meant 'if you feel like it.' Listen, Newkirk, I'm sure they're all really nice guys. We need to create a skills inventory, and we should be friendly, like the Colonel said."

"Go off and be fff, uh, ffff, uh fff-fffriendly, then," Newkirk answered. "I have enough mates right here."

Carter chewed on his bottom lip while Newkirk grumbled and sulked. Finally the American spoke up.

"You don't want to talk to them?" he asked.

"Blimey, give that man a B-B-Butlin's gold mmmmedal," Newkirk said. "You're bloody br-br-brilliant, you are."

"You don't have to be obnoxious, Newkirk," Carter said. He tipped his head and looked at Newkirk with big eyes. "Why don't you want to talk to them?"

"Well, Carter, it may have eluded your notice, but I have a tendency to get a bit st-st-st…" Newkirk began. He looked down, shaking his head, then attacked the word again. "St-st-st-st-st-st…" He was blinking now, unable to break through until he slammed both hands down on the table. "Stuck!" he shouted. Then he went quiet. "I don't wwwwant to get st-stuck. That's all."

"I could do the talking," Carter said.

"Right, and I'll do charades, or semaphore, perhaps," Newkirk grumbled.

"It's OK if you stutter, Peter. You've said so yourself."

Newkirk was cradling his head in his hand now, looking as if he was in some pain. "Andrew," he moaned. He searched for an explanation. "They'll think I'm stupid if I _don't_ talk. And they'll think I'm stupid if I _do_ talk. I j-j-just can't go there."

"Nobody thinks you're stupid," Carter said definitively. He reached across the table, tipped Newkirk's coffee mug toward him and saw it was empty, so he took it to the sink with his own and washed them both out. Then he returned to the table to face his friend, who looked stubborn as heck, with his arms crossed in front of him.

"Come on, I'll do most of the talking, and you just chime in when you can," Carter said. "But we have to go. The Colonel's counting on us."

"Ffffine," Newkirk replied, getting to his feet. "B-but you have to say mmmmmy name. I'm not d-doing it."

"Roger that," Carter said.

"It's P-P-Peter, not Roger," Newkirk said, cracking a smile.

**XXX**

"That was awful," Newkirk said as they walked back to the barracks.

"Ah, it wasn't so bad," Carter replied.

Newkirk was frowning. "Oh, no, of course it wasn't bad. They weren't sn-sn-sniggering at you, mmmmate."

Carter walked alongside Newkirk, trying to keep his spirits high. "I didn't notice anyone laughing, Newkirk. And you told them right off the bat that you stammer. That was good."

Newkirk ground to a halt and rounded on Carter. "I didn't say they were laughing. I said they were sniggering. Cl-clean your ears out!"

Carter braced himself. He knew the meeting in Barracks 23 had gotten under Newkirk's skin, but he didn't think it was _that_ bad. Although it was bad enough that they had thrown in the towel before they got to Barracks 24, so maybe…

Carter forced himself to stop yapping and just answer. "I'm not sure I know the difference between laughing and sniggering, Newkirk," he said cautiously.

"That's because you're dim, ain't it? Because it's obviously different. Sniggering is how p-p-p-people act when they're trying to hide their amusement, laughing into their hands and hoping I won't notice. They were laughing _at_ me, Carter. And I'm fed up." Newkirk got the words out, as he often did when he was very angry. But his face was turning red, and he was shaking. Carter was a stranger to emotional outbursts, so he didn't know how to react.

"Alright," Carter said in resignation as Newkirk marched ahead of him, barging into Barracks 2 and not even stopping to hold the door open. Carter felt the gust of a door slamming in his face and decided that staying outside suddenly seemed like a much better idea than going inside. So he lit a cigarette and slumped down on the bunk outside Barracks 2.

Five minutes later, the door swung open and LeBeau exited, looking for all the world like a man who'd been flung outside by a hurricane. He saw Carter on the bench and approached him, shaking his head and looking shell-shocked.

Carter offered him a smoke, which LeBeau accepted. He inhaled and gradually settled down.

"What's the matter, Louis?" Carter asked.

"Don't ask me. Ask Pierre," LeBeau replied. "_Il est en une colère noire._ What do you call it? A black rage. I can't reach him when he's like this." He puffed out a smoke ring. "What happened?"

"We went to meet the guys in Barracks 23 like Colonel Hogan said. He was doing fine, but then he tripped on some words and started stuttering."

"He always stutters," LeBeau said.

"Yep," Carter replied.

"Was it that bad?" LeBeau inquired.

"Well, I didn't think it was, but maybe it was for him. Somebody asked how long he'd been in camp, and he was just gagging over the answer. I was hoping he'd think to hold up three fingers. That would have done the trick."

"He's not a child. He doesn't want to count with his fingers," LeBeau said wearily. He exhaled and shook his head. "I wish this was easier for him. He struggles… and then he takes it out on us."

"Yep," Carter said. There wasn't much to add. They sat silently for a few minutes, when LeBeau piped up.

"He's made a lot of progress."

"Yeah?" Carter replied.

"_Definitement_. When I first knew him, taking to anyone was difficult. The first words he ever spoke to me were, 'Oh, fuck, it's you.' That and 'sod off' were the main words in his vocabulary. It was days before we had a real conversation. He was a wild animal."

"That sounds right," Carter said with a little laugh. "He wasn't much nicer to me."

"No, he wasn't. But now he talks to everyone in our barracks, and he has his football friends and a few RAF friends. I wonder if he realizes the progress he's made."

"Probably not," Carter replied. "I think he mostly sees what he can't do."


End file.
